Never Better
by The Brilliant Fool
Summary: New preface, please read! An updated P&P story, set in modern Boston. Lizzy drinks vodka, Darcy... hasn't change
1. Preface

PREFACE TO READ BEFORE DIVING IN :

So I've been getting more and more negative reviews for this story. I'm going to begin this message by saying I COMPLETELY AGREE WITH YOU. Reading over my story is a bit painful. Actually, very painful, because it was begun during my painfully awkward years, which, while not being over, per se, are at least in their death throes.

I started writing this story when I was thirteen, and posting when I was fourteen. Lizzy talks like a tween, I had no idea what a drunk person looked like when I was younger, and Darcy is not as poetic and stalwart as I imagined he was four years ago.

So if you're reading this for the first time, be warned by what I just said. If you're coming back, then you know what this story is, and I'm glad that you still enjoy it. This is not my piece de resistance, so please don't treat it as such. My other stories, which are also flawed, I know, are more recent, and therefore, I hope, somewhat truer to their source. I also have one on fictionpress that I really like.

This is my disclaimer: none of these views expressed here, and none of the writing styles, are mine at the moment. This story, while almost totally juvenile and melodramatic up until the end, is a part of my life, and though I'm not satisfied with it, I don't want to change it because it's a part of my history.

So be warned. And if you still want to read on, take it with the grain of salt I'm giving you.

Thanks a bunch, and happy hunting,

Dinah


	2. Prologue

1.1.1.1.1 Prologue  
  
For some unexplainable reason, everything that happens in the story that follows is true. Don't ask why, it just is. In all my wildest dreams, I couldn't have imagine how screwed up just living in a house with my sister and three roommates could be to my entire life, but here we are.  
  
Since I have very little patience for detail or any of that crap, I'm going to introduce you to the whole wankingly long list of characters so you won't stop in the middle of a particularly wicked paragraph of my derring-do and say "who the f***k is she yammering on about?" If you don't read this and find yourself having no idea of what's going on, it's your own fault.  
  
Cast of Characters:  
  
THE MAIN PEOPLES:  
  
MEEEEEEE! - Yes, you guessed it, me. Lizzy Bennet. Actually, the younger, meaner, and slightly less pretty of us Bennet sisters. I drink vodka, listen to loud punk (normally EMO, but have been looking for new harder- core music) I gamble, and (God willing) will have sex at least once before leaving college. (I don't smoke, huff, pop, or sniff anything though; I think that's disgusting.)  
  
Jen Bennet-My dear sweet darling sister. The prettier, nicer, more popular(er?) one. I don't care, honestly. Really. It doesn't matter that every time my aunt comes to see us, she embraces Jen first and exclaims loudly enough for the people next door to hear and get the hint "How DARLING you look my DARLING! If only some people could wear their hair as DARLINGLY as you do," I was, at the moment, trying out dreddies, "And you have SUCH impeccable TASTE in clothes that it's a wonder OTHERS don't FOLLOW YOUR EXAMPLE!" I wasn't dressed horribly, if I do say so myself, but Auntie dearest makes such a fuss about a pair of old jeans, a t-shirt that says "The Upperhand Rocks My Socks" and a denim jacket with small steel spike around the collar and cuffs.  
  
Kat Hammond- One of my four roommates. Shy, introverted, misunderstood, blah blah blah. Get to know Kat and she's really a psychotic bitch with a flair for dramatic death sequences in shitty romance novels. She once took a bet that said she couldn't eat a shard of glass without going to the emergency room. She walked away twenty quid richer.  
  
Mary Marlow- Possibly one of the stupidest people I have ever met in my entire life. Show-off, prissy, conceited, and ugly as hell. The only reason she rooms with us at all is that she's Lydia's twin sister (you'll meet Lydia later) and has a rich and powerful mum and dad. I bought at least three hundred CD's with the dole given to me by those infectious chuckleheads, and even bought a billiard table without having to pay for any of it myself.  
  
Lydia Marlow- Smartish, considering she's 15 and in college already. Possibly the nicest and happiest person I know, except for Jane. So unlike her sister that I think I could bump Mary off without Lydia noticing for at least a month.  
  
THE GENTLEMEN:  
  
Charlie Bingleton III: Despite his stuck-up and WASPish name, he is actually the kind and love-struck hero for most of this story. Sister + Charlie= hon hon hon, as Maurice Chevalier was so fond of saying.  
  
William Darcy- No, NOT William Darcyinglton III. Just Darcy. Possibly the only person in the world who I have ever hated with a passion besides Mr. Bengals, my perverted science teacher who would drool over pornos under his desk, moaning occasionally when he got a good look at a pair of titties.  
  
Eddie Gardiner- My uncle, who lives in the cheapest part of Boston in the cheapest apartment available. Probably because his boss is a cheap wanker. Favorite male relative of the older generation.  
  
Fred Wickham- former friend, not anymore, you'll understand later. Charming, such a suck-up that you could spend three hours around him and listen to him talk about how pretty, intelligent, charming, blah blah, etc. and walk away actually believing it until you come face to face with the most unforgiving thing in the world: your twin sister, or a mirror.  
  
Rowan Forscythe- My slightly introverted cousin. He's a nice boy but you often think theres something wrong with him until you realize. "Hey its Rowan, he's always been like this, always will be." He's shy but very nice if you get to know him (Sounds like a dating add, don't it?). He's always seemed slightly shyer around Kat than anyone else and I think he likes her. But Good-fuckin'-luck getting him to admit it. He's Rowan.  
  
Stephen Baker- A distant relative. You'll get to know him. Lives near one of the biggest mansions in the Berskshires, and can't stop yammering on about it. In my advice, screw him. That's exactly what my best friend did.  
  
THE LADIES (aye aye, whoohoo and all that crap)  
  
Emma Bingleton- Sister of Mr. Love, searching for ways to quicken the coming of my death. (and her orgasms, but that's another story entirely. I shudder to think of the horrible mental pictures that conjures up) She's liked Will Darcy for longer and harder than is humanly healthy. Borders on obsession, it does. Disgusting.  
  
Sarah Bingleton Hurst- married sister of Charlie and Emma. Married, but spends all of her time away from her disgustingly rich and disgusting husband, Bruno Hurst. Word says that his main diet consists of gourmet mustard from the bottle. Only good thing that can be said about Sarah is that she doesn't eat gourmet mustard from the bottle.  
  
My mom- The only person in the whole world who has been pregnant with me ad raised me but still has absolutely no clue who I am. When I was young, she used to buy Jane and me the exact same clothes in different colors, to save the time in actually thinking whether either of us would like them anyway.  
  
Charlotte Young- My best friend in the whole world, besides Jen. Clever, charming, bright. But not in what my mother would classify as "the man stealers." She is the only person that I can tell anything to, because she is the only person who isn't confused and saddened that I haven't turned out sinless and sweet. AAHHHHHHHHHHH!!  
  
Rachel Gardiner- my aunt. Not the one who comments on my clothes, a different one. She lives in the cheapest apartment with my uncle Eddie.  
  
Catherine de Bourgh- one of those pretendly French people who speaks with the English affected accent and believes she can play God. The aforementioned Baker is totally in awe of her, and doesn't pass the chance to suck up to her at every available opportunity. (Will Darcy's dead mother's friend)  
  
Georgiana Darcy- William's younger sister. (He's 22 and she's 14) Orphans by the way, but they're so rich that it doesn't put into play the coughing Oliver Twistian characters that we normally think about.  
  
Catherine de Bourgh's daughter- I can't remember her name, and I don't exactly care either. She's only in this cast of characters because she plays indirectly into my story.  
  
Everyone else in this story is either non-important or just has been ignored. Please, read on, for even though I hate advertising for myself, I think this had got to be the best story you will ever read or are ever likely to read in your entire life. (Finally, after years of searching!) The meaning of life is hidden somewhere in this story, I'm sure, but I don't exactly know where, so fee free to tell e at any point when it comes popping into play.  
  
Our story begins:  
  
Chapter One: The Inconvenience of a Massive Hangover 


	3. The Inconvenience of Having a Massive Ha

A/N: Normally I'm against big long author's notes but in this case I'll just have to indulge myself. Yay! I've posted another chapter. Thank you to every one of you three people who posted reviews, I needed those for moral support. Read my other story, it's good, I swear! By the Bye- I do not own Alka-Seltzer, Metallica concerts, the copyright to condoms or anything else that is purely not of my creation, or the plot line and major characters in my story. Rowan belongs to my brother and Kat Hammond belongs to me. Anyhoo, on with my story.  
  
Chapter One: The Inconvenience of a Massive Hangover  
  
Despite all I could say against my roommate Mary, there is one thing to her credit: she can squeal loud enough to wake the dead. Which I almost was, considering what I had drunk in abundance the night before. I raised my head off my pillow and opened my eyes as best I could. "Ow, sweet mother of God!" I closed my eyes again. The sun was way to bright. I rolled over and tried to get back to sleep, but my pounding head and Mary's squeals refused to abate, and so I rolled over again, this time sliding off my bed onto the floor. That was where Jen found me. She quietly opened the door and looked down at my broken, flayed body accompanied by the second largest hangover ever had by any human being before that (the first being Maharaja Sumnaan after his sixteenth wedding) and groaned, "Jesus, Lizzie, again?" Even the small whisper sent my head into Metallica concerts waves of pain. I moaned softly, and opened my eyes slowly, letting my eyes get used to the light. I saw Jen, my very tall, very thin sister in her bathrobe looking down at me, and glass of water in her hand. "Shut up please, Jen, I'm having the second largest hangover in the world right now and I'd appreciate it if Mary would SHUT HER YAMMERING PIE- HOLE!!!" I raised my voice so that Mary and the others could hear, though shouting racked my poor brain with new agony. "All right, I'll tell Mary to stop squealing. She sounds constipated when she does it, poor thing, maybe she should stick to jumping up and down like she used to," She handed me the glass of water and opened a packet of Alka- Seltzer and tipped the tablets in. "Here, drink this. It's the kind that stops hangovers. See you downstairs in a few." And she quietly closed to door behind her, leaving my Alka-Seltzer and me in peace.  
  
*** When I finally went downstairs to breakfast, my world-class headache has turned into world-class bitchiness. Mary had stopped squealing (even the brain-dead need to breathe) and was now bouncing up and down in her seat. My cousin Rowan was talking to Jen, and Kat was burning Lucky Charms marshmallows with her lighter.  
  
"OmigodLizzieguesswhatguesswhatguesswhatomigodyou'llneverguessI'lltellyou," Mary said. Mary almost always talks like that.  
  
"Yeah Lizzie, guess what guess what?" said Kat scathingly. In a slight understatement, Kat wanted to destroy Mary, kill her first-born child and ruin her entire future.  
  
"Shut up. I'll never guess and I don't think I want to know." I plunked myself down in a chair and started eating Trix out of the box.  
  
"CharlieBingletonisherehe'shereandhe'slivingrealclosehe'shereandI'mgoingtose ehimsothere!" she stuck her tongue out at Kat, who flipped her off in response.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Some rich preppie-flake who's face has hit every cover of every teen's mag in the country," said Rowan, also taking a handful of Trix.  
  
"Oh. Pop culture sucks. Thank God I only read Mad and Johnny The Homicidal Maniac comic." My head was feeling a little better. Good. Now I could strangle Mary when Kat did.  
  
"How was the party last night?" Lydia asked, taking the subject away from the realm of her older sister's embarrassing stupidity.  
  
"Yeah did you get drunk and start a revolution?" asked Jen.  
  
"Well you know about the drunk part already," said Rowan, handing back the Trix box with a grimace. "Liz-mastah, don't you have any Frosted Shredded Wheat instead?"  
  
"Nope, sorry. Apparently the frosting causes cancer." I poured myself some orange juice.  
  
"Really?"  
  
I winked at him. "No, but it sounded good in context,"  
  
Jen sat down next to me. "So how about that party?"  
  
I grimaced at the memory, "Nah, it sucked royally, too many of those future truck driver guys who whistle and hand you drugged drinks. Not my kinda party."  
  
"What about that hottie Jake?" Rowan drawled.  
  
"Don't mention that name to me ever again. He's dead to me," I tried out my Marlin Brando "Godfather" voice. Kat lit a clover-shaped marshmallow to a bright purple brilliance, attracting Rowan's attention for a second.  
  
"Well, you've got another chance today. There's a big party. "thang" at Master Bingleton's house. Open house. No "rich kids only" crap. You can try to go to a party without getting drunk tonight," said Kat.  
  
"That'll be a first," joked my sister.  
  
"Why do I wanna go to the party of some preppie rich kid who epitomizes pop culture? Why can't I write my art paper like a normal college student and sit around watching late night Care Bears on TV with a bottle of Sunny D and sink into the couch in my drunken loneliness? Why can't you let me do that for one night? Just one?"  
  
"Because if you do it for one night, you'll do it forever. I know you will. So, are you coming? It won't be the same without you," retorted Jen.  
  
"Yeah, no drunken scenes, no loud voice singing punk songs off-key, no jumping into the pool fully-clothed for other reasons than attention. damn," Rowan smirked.  
  
I could what they were doing. But still it made me react like a little boy saying that his daddy could beat another kid's dad no problem.  
  
"Oh yeah?" I poked Rowan's chest. "I bet you anything you want that I'll go, be a hit and not get drunk. How 'bout it, sunshine?" my rebuke got a snigger from Kat, Lydia and Jen.  
  
"I'll wager my entire collection of CDs. You wager." I glanced at Kat for a split second, "A date with a girl of my choosing," he looked at me suspiciously, "And no, no lunch ladies this time, I swear,"  
  
"That was the grossest three hours of my life," Rowan muttered as we laughed heartily.  
  
'It's a deal," said Jen decisively. "Rowan needs a woman and you need to go one party without bringing shame on the Bennet family, ain't that right Bernadette Peters?"  
  
"Right."  
  
I didn't have time to realize what I'd done. I didn't have time to figure out that my life might be altered from it's scarily Bridget Jones-ish format. I didn't even have time to finish my orange juice and reach for more Trix, because at that moment, Mary spoke up: "OmigodLizzieguesswhatguesswhatguesswhatomigodyou'llneverguessI'lltellyou: CharlieBingletonisherehe'shere.-what?" she asked, as we all turned to look at her. 


	4. A Drunken Revolution

A/N: Hey. Author's notes are fun! I just realized, I'm a wee bit slow. Anyhoo, the next, LONG AWAITED, TOTALLY FABULOUS, MARVELOUSLY ENTERTAINING, PERFECTLY SPELLED (well, maybe not.) CHAPTER IS HERE! All hail queen Moonchild! Thank y'all for your reviews, and if you have any constructive criticisms at all, please breaking it to me gently. Flames make me cry (sniff). If possible, make reviews real reviews, like any nit-picky, anal grammatical/spelling/plot/you all hate me and want me to die comments that are dying to be let out can, and should, be put in there.  
  
By the way: DISCLAIMER!: The basic plot and story, plus the story that is the basis for what I write belong to and always will belong to Jane Austen. Any characters here not found in Ms. Austen's books belong to me, so HA! (Hee hee) that was fun.  
  
Without further ado:  
  
Chapter Three: A drunken Revolution  
  
Not wanting to put my entire 600 CDs at stake to a guy who has three CDs and lives in an apartment with a couch, a sink, and a toilet, I went as far as the preppies would allow. I was in suburban punk regalia (you know, skirt over jeans, black long-sleeved shirt with a picture of a creepy clown safety pinned on the back) and was wearing my favorite Salvation Army combat boots.  
  
I pressed the thin purple towel to my face and shook my head a little. My newly dyed orange hair was put into fifteen small braids and strung through with some charm bracelets that I had...borrowed...yeah...from Jake's (my former dipshit boyfriend) sister's dresser. I'm honest, I swear! The only problem with those things is that if there are a lot of happy little flower- doggy-shoe charms, they tend to dig into your scalp when you're dancing. Looks awesome though.  
  
When I got downstairs, everyone was ready. Kat was in a thigh-length black coat and a purple shirt and flared jeans with scorch marks along the bottom. Mary was in a dress that looked suspiciously like something from Abercrombie&Fitch's sale window. Rowan was wearing exactly what he had been wearing this morning (I seriously doubt that he owns anything more than tan cargo pants and a Weezer shirt) and Jen looked like my wonderfully perfect sister always looked like: perfect. Lydia was close to fifteen-year-old perfection (virgin glow, blah blah blah, whatever that song says).  
  
Because we lacked what almost every other college student in the world has- a car, we walked for forty minutes, got lost down a dead end road, jumped five fences and almost got hit by a Chevy truck and two identical Ferraris (damn rich kids...) before we heard the tell-tale sound of crappy music blaring at top volume that told us we were near to the house.  
  
Normally ostentatious means three huge stories, white marble pillars, butlers and a Rolls Royce. That couldn't even begin to describe what the Bingleton's had going for them. Not that I was jealous... well, not much... but think of all the...um...third... world... countries that could use the money involved in buying this crap. That's me, world conscious. And hey, my house could be considered a third world country, right?  
  
When the door opened, we got the whole effect of stressed butler on the verge of nervous collapse and cool lighting, the smell of cigarettes and vodka (goooooooood) and other lesser beverages and short skirts and fancy twenty-dollar haircuts and NSYNC would-be-rock shit.  
  
We walked into the dining room that could have held my house and Rowan's one room with minimal squeezing. People were dancing and laughing, and there were three couples making out on the floor and up against one of the gold leaf encrusted pillars. Almost immediately a guy pounced on Jen and brought her to the dance floor. Rowan kind of shrank inwardly a little at the sight of so many girls that he knew he couldn't talk to, and Mary and Lydia disappeared.  
  
I made my way to the Doritos bowl and drink rack. I laughed aloud in delight to see the three full bottles of vodka and the small bottle of cognac, alone and untouched. Rowan had followed me and watched as in the first five minutes of my party life I downed a glass of vodka.  
  
"So are you calling off that bet?" he yelled over the blare of the music.  
  
"Hell no, curly, I'm just bracing myself for the crapiness of this party," I held up the bottle of cognac. "Have you ever tried this stuff?" He shook his head, "Well you should! Trust me, it tastes just like wine!"  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Since when have I not known my alcohol?"  
  
He looked at the small bottle doubtfully, and then smiled slightly. "Okay, what the hell?" I slipped off towards the music before he opened the bottle. They were playing some other pop crap at top volume, but even then I could hear the yell that erupted out of my dear sweet cousin as the cognac (tastes like burning) shot down his throat.  
  
Over the tops of the party-people's perfectly groomed heads I saw Rowan charge after me into the crowd. Slipping in between a slow dancing couple, I ran for another room where people were congregating, drinking soda and beer, and talking. A few people turned to stare at my hair and gave me those snotty, up-and-down, "what are _you_ doing here?" looks. I plunked myself down in a comfy leather sofa next to Lydia, who was carefully breaking off pieces from a cookie, careful not to get any crumbs on her dress. She smiled at me and pointed to two men standing and talking near the doorway.  
  
"You see the blond one on the left? The thinner one? That's Charlie Bingleton. He's the one who's been dancing with Jen, but now he's talking to Will Darcy."  
  
"Will Darcy?" I snorted, "You mean the Will Darcy who no one likes? The billionaire that always has some crap written about him in the Weekly World News about him having his parents frozen in his basement or having a secret long-lost brother? THAT Will Darcy?"  
  
"Yup. Hot, isn't he?"  
  
"Yeah!...but why are they talking? They don't know each other!"  
  
"Dear God!" Lydia laughed. "Is being a punk mean that you have to live under a social rock? Jesus, Lizzie, they've been best friends for their whole lives!"  
  
"Oh." I said, exuding my ever-present wit.  
  
Lydia finished her cookie, and brushed her hands to get the non-existent crumbs off. "Liz, I'd love to talk more, but there's a really cute guy standing there alone. It's a party, and being alone when you're that hot is a crime against nature. Bye!"  
  
"Toodles, Lyd,"  
  
I sat alone n the couch and pushed one of the charms in my hair to a more comfortable position. Obviously I was not one of the hot ones. Or no guy had the balls to ask me to dance in this company. You'll never know how horrible it is to be at a party and to be alone until you've been there. To amuse myself, I eavesdropped on people's conversations.  
  
Two girls were talking behind me: "And he was all 'well, so are you!' and I was all 'nuh-unh!' and he was all "yuh-huh!' and then we had amazing sex in his Jacuzzi!"

"Where did that come from?" the other girl asked.  
  
"I dunno, but it happened that way!"  
  
Ewww_ww bad mental picture_.  
  
A guy and a girl were flirting to my right: "We should get out of this place," he rubbed her arm, "Ya know, I show you the world, teach you how to play my...guitar."  
  
_Oh please, asshole, like that's gonna get you into her pants!_  
  
"Oh, that's sooo sweet!" she said. "Wanna have sex?"  
  
"Okay!"  
  
_I don't believe it!_  
  
"...Don't even know why I came here, Charlie, you have the only girl worth looking at here. Besides, it's full of leeches and potheads anyway." I looked at the men talking in the doorway from the corner of my eye. The one on the right (Will Darcy, according to Lydia) was careful to look bored and aloof. What I could see of my host's face was animated and smiling.  
  
"You mean Jen?" he asked happily. My head snapped around for a second, then returned to its former state of "little person slowly drinking vodka at crappy party" attitude.  
  
"She's gorgeous, isn't she? But come on Will, she's not the only one! There's that cute blonde over there..."  
  
"Anyone who wears that much makeup is either a insecure superficial slut or a guy in a dress."  
  
My mouth dropped open at his blatant stereotypes of women and drag queens. Why I had known a man by the name of Silver who never wore makeup.  
  
"Alright, what about that girl in the blue dress?"  
  
"She looks like she's fifteen. Sorry Charlie, but I'm not a cradle snatcher."  
  
Oh, so they _can_ tell that Lydia's fifteen.  
  
"Fine, so you don't go in for the whole pedophile shtick. I don't blame you," said Charlie. "Well how about..." his voice lowered to almost a mutter, trying to make sure I didn't hear. Fortunately for me, my ears have the range of those kids in one of the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle stories, the I Thought You Said-ers Cure where Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle gives their mom a powder that makes the kids able to hear a pin drop from a mile away. A little off- beat, I know, but I'm a woman of many talents.  
  
"...Jen's sister, that girl over there with the cool orange hair. She's pretty too." Why thank you, buttercup.  
  
"What, that cow? I can't believe that you'd be so stupid! I can't be seen with that trash, are you kidding? She may be your precious Jenny's sister but she looks more like her pet bloodhound!"  
  
Asshole-bastard-emotional fuckwit-pervert-man-whore! My mind raged at him. I drank the rest of the vodka n my glass and stood up, deliberately walking in between the two dandies with a smug, confident "Sorry boys!" and a hateful glance at Darcy before walking back into the dance room.  
  
"Smooth Will, she heard you!" was the last thing I heard before I saw something that made my jaw drop and made me forget about Darcy and Charlie liking my sister. I saw Rowan surrounded by girls, downing another bottle of cognac.  
  
"Eight!.Weezer guy...Weezer guy...Weezer guy!" the group around him yelled.  
  
Oh God. Rowan had downed eight cognacs. I had to get him home before he passed out or O.D.ed.  
  
"Hey Liz! Watch me drink some more of that con...cog...urm...wine shit!" he yelled at me.  
  
"Hell no, sunshine! What would we tell the world if the kid with the fruity name went into a coma at rich kid's party!" I put his arm around my shoulders and dragged him to the door. He sagged against me, and started to bawl drunkenly.  
  
"Waaaaaaahaaaaa! I have a fruity name, I know! Kids say that to me all the Haaaaaaaaaaahunnnnnnnnnnh, all the time and, and, and, and I can't say anything about it! 'Cause I Do! It's true! I'm a failure at everything I do- Booooooooooooooohoooooooo! And it's all because of my fruity-ass name! Row- Row-Rowan Foursides! How lame is that? Whhhawhawhaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaahaaaa!" I tried to comfort him while hauling his dead weight to the door. As I handed the butler a brandy at the door, Jen, Kat, Lydia and Mary joined me.  
  
"What happened?" Jen asked.  
  
"I'll tell you later. We just have to get him out of here now!" the door opened and as I stepped outside Rowan shouted into the staring faces of Jen, Kat, Lydia, Mary, Will Darcy and Charlie Bingleton and six-odd watching faces, "Tell the world that I've started the revolution!" 


	5. Slim Pickings : A brief interlude

A/N: Yes dearies, it's another of those cheesy Author's notes thingys. I guess I'm drunk with power. Or maybe just drunk, but that's a whole 'nother ball game. So here it is, sorry I'm so damn lazy. Oh, and also, sorry to those people who don't think it's rated right, I'm bad at all kinds of judgment, but have you seen PG-13 movies with what I have here in them? I have. Or maybe it was in a dream.I guess I'll never know.  
  
Chapter three: Slim Pickings  
  
NOTE A LA LIZZY: I have got THE lightest fingers in the world, and so I have a (ahem) certain person's diary sitting next to me. I had thought only to read you the bad poetry inside (which comes along later) but I felt like adding in at least one real entry. So, here goes.  
  
JOURNAL OF WILLIAM DARCY 2002 Entry #134 page 205  
  
There are times when I fear for my friend's judgment. When he said the word "party" I thought it was going to be a REAL party, with the people we all know and trust and good food. Instead, we had Doritos, Bud Lite, and frat boys with kegs, slutty girls, and hip-hop.  
  
About twenty minutes into the party, five girls accompanied by a tall guy in a Weezer shirt walked in. Now, at first glance, they looked slightly promising. There was a remarkably pretty one with blonde hair and good clothes followed by two girls who looked well (except for one who looked fifteen). Next came a mysterious, dark one in a very long leather coat with singe marks all around. Then I saw the last girl in the group, and my stomach clenched in what felt like a bad way.  
  
She had ORANGE HAIR. I'm not joking. ORANGE. Oh I know some people do that now, but I had never actually been up close to one. She was wearing a purple skirt over a pair of jeans, and had a black-and-white cow spotted shirt on. There seemed to be charm bracelets in her hair, if that's believable. She looked less than happy about being there, especially when the music began pumping. Well, I don't blame her for that.  
  
The moment the pretty blonde walked in, Charlie's eyes widened, and he dashed forward to ask her to dance. The fifteen-year -old and the girl who looked like her sister went off to separate corners of the house. The girl with the orange hair and the boy went into the dancing room too, but didn't go to the dace floor.  
  
"Well, she made quite a disturbance, didn't she?" A voice said behind me. I turned, smiling slightly as Emma Bingleton stepped into view. For as long as Charlie has been my friend, so had she. Her dark eyes and long hair set her face off rather prettily if you like that sort of thing.  
  
"Which one? There were five of them," I said quizzically.  
  
"The girl with the blonde hair. She looked like the only girl here worth dancing with. Good for Charlie," I agreed, but my mind skipped back to the girl with orange hair. She had been attractive enough.well anyway.  
  
".Oh, and did you see that girl with the dyed hair? I mean, who does that any more? I just think she wants attention, that's all. She was an ugly little thing," Emma continued.  
  
If there's one thing I would like to change about Emma, it's how shallow she can be sometimes. Yet she had a point, who DID dye their hair orange anymore? What dregs of society did she get washed up from? It was all too disgraceful.  
  
Somewhat later, after Charlie had danced twice with the blonde girl, he and I stood talking in his study, there were other people there, but mainly they were flirting, smoking pot, or eating brownies. The girl with the orange hair walked in and sat down next to the fifteen-year-old girl eating a brownie. I momentarily entertained the thought that they were lesbian lovers, but decided that by the way the fifteen-year-old was scrutinizing the boy in the corner with the guitar, I doubted it. Then Charlie said, "You have to cheer up some, Will. You need to relax, find a girl to talk to."  
  
I decided not to mention Emma, and scoffed loudly.  
  
"I don't even know why I came here, Charlie, you have the only girl worth looking at here. Besides, it's full of leeches and potheads anyway."  
  
"You mean Jen?" he asked me happily, his eyes lighting up. Dear god, the boy was smitten! I had never seen the fellow so worked up about a girl before. The moment he said this, the girl with the orange hair (whom I shall now call Ginger)'s head snapped around for a second, focusing on Charlie for a moment before sipping her drink and attempting nonchalance. "She's gorgeous, isn't she? But come on Will, she's not the only one! There's that cute blonde over there."  
  
I looked over, and then grimaced. "Anyone who wears that much makeup is either a insecure superficial slut or a guy in a dress." Dear God don't make me date another guy in a dress, the last time was too painfully gross.  
  
"Alright, what about that girl in the blue dress?" he said, trying to sound casual, but his voice quavered with suppressed laughter. He directed my gaze to the girl who had been sitting on the couch with a brownie a minute ago, and was now talking to the guy in the corner.  
  
"She looks like she's fifteen. Sorry Charlie, but I'm not a cradle snatcher."  
  
"Fine, so you don't go in for the whole pedophile shtick. I don't blame you," said Charlie. "Well how about." his looked around the room in a way I didn't like. I knew Charlie well enough to know when he was trying to pretend like he's making a tough decision but really has his mind all made up. He lowered his voice slightly, "en's sister, that girl over there with the cool orange hair. She's pretty too." And immediately, everything Emma had said came back to me, and my mouth formed the words of defense I had built up whenever my friends tried to set me up with someone.  
  
"What, that cow? I can't believe that you'd be so stupid! I can't be seen with that trash, are you kidding? She may be your precious Jenny's sister but she looks more like she pet bloodhound!"  
  
I think that I may have gone overboard just a little bit. Charlie was right, she was cute, but I HAVE my pride.  
  
At that, the girl got up in what was a surprisingly regal manner and stalked out, head held high, straight between Charlie and me. Charlie grimaced and said accusingly, "I think she heard you! That was harsh Will, way too harsh!"  
  
And he went off alone to find Jen again. I leaned against a pillar for a moment, catching my breath. Wow. I never knew I had it in me say that stuff. Must be getting stronger.  
  
About five minutes later, the girl, followed by the other four girls who had arrived with her, hauled a drunken, sobbing version of the guy in the Weezer shirt to the front door. They left amid wild cheers of "Weezer guy!Weezer guy!"  
  
I hope I never have to see THEM again. But I have the sneaking suspicion I will, if Charlie gets too involved with that Jen girl thing.  
  
  
  
Note a la Lizzy: And that's the good part (Aka the part including me. I'm not self-centered, honest!) The rest is about stock, business, his aunt, yada yada yada, bla blah blah, so you don't need to know that for the quiz. Thanks for reading, but somehow I don't Monsieur Darcy will ignore the loss of his journal for very long, so I have to put it back. Toodles!  
  
-Lizzmastah 


	6. Jungle Boogie Dow now now Dow now now

A/N: 'Ello Ducks! I'm back from vacation, into my gasp high school and away from reality. Sorry about the delay. (I'm lazy, I've told you) I had Chinese food twice in a row, so I'm ready to post. (MSG gets me goin'!). Thanks to y'all for being semi-patient. Oh by the way, I don't plan to post another chapter until I get at least 40 reviews (it's not blackmail, it's extortion!) Pleeeeeeeeeease? I love reviews but lately I haven't been getting many.  
  
Up, Up, and Away!  
  
Chapter Five: Jungle Boogie (Dow-now-now, Dow-now-now) Get down with the boogie  
  
My arms ached. My head buzzed. My breakfast cereal lay untouched. I wasn't getting the nutrition I needed. And I had no reason not to eat my Wheaties (Lucky Charms) and drink my milk, and then stay in school.  
  
Well, actually there are a myriad of reasons. I had just carried my 155 pound, 5'11", sobbing, drunken cousin the long way home as Lydia and Mary spouted happily all the things they had done in the hour-or-so that we were at the party. (Mary's was unintelligible, mostly because I was too damn angry at Will Darcy to think about anything less than killing his first- born child). Kat walked behind the sisters, coolly aloof and secretly writing another chapter in her cheesy romance novel (call it dabbling, if you will). Jen didn't say much of anything, just walked behind me, smiling happily.  
  
Lucky Charms are part of this complete breakfast. I don't know what they say about sixteen-day-old Lucky Charms that are stale and as hard the pizza I made in eighth grade Home Ec. (Is it "guaranteed to break your teeth"?)  
  
Not many people in this world can eat breakfast alone when everybody else is sleeping. Most people wait for a while before eating because in the back of their minds, they're still not sure it's okay to eat breakfast before everyone else. For most of my childhood I waited until everyone got up, in hopes that my dad would make pancakes. When he made waffles, I was shattered.  
  
I was mad. I was very very very mad. I was madder than a wet hen. I was mad as a duck in winter. I was raving, hopping, fuming, steaming, and thud- whumpingly mad. I was seeing red, I was pawing the ground. I was angrier 'n' a skunk in the summer time (yee-haw!) In the spirit of "Blue's Clues", can you tell us who's making Lizzy so mad? You can? Great! (Pause) Who's making Lizzy so mad? (Longer pause) (Wait for it) (Wait for it.) "Will Darcy!" Oh! Will Darcy! Right! Thanks!  
  
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! Argh! Ugh! Ooooh! EEEEEEEEEEHHHH!!! Other random noises that express anger/frustration! That boy had just given himself the present of a death wish, and not even one of those pretend or fake death wishes, oh no. This was real. He was goin' down.  
  
And so I sat there at the table, trying to shake off the feeling that my arms would need to be amputated, when Jen came down, smiling in one of those "secret-joy" type smiles that plague the hell out of little sisters.  
  
"Good morning, Lizzy dahhhhling," she sang, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. I muttered something incomprehensible in return, trying to swing my dead arms up to my cereal using my screaming shoulders.  
  
"Wasn't that party great? It was a LOT better than some of those other parties we've been to!" Jen sat down and drank her orange juice for a second, then seemed to think better of it, and put the cup down.  
  
"Lizzy, did you meet Charlie?"  
  
"Who the hell is Charlie?" I asked grumpily.  
  
"Charles Bingleton! You know, the guy whose party we just went to?"  
  
"Oh," I said, ever so wittily. Boy was I intelligent. "Not directly. I was too busy being a social outcast and carrying Rowan home," I thought for a second. "Why?"  
  
And for the first time since she had said the word "dog" as "dong" on the day we were kicked out of Sunday School, I saw my sister blush.  
  
"Well, he was so nice to me. The moment I came in he brought me over to the dance floor, and he was so polite and nice! You can't imagine how it felt to be the noticed by the one guy you thought would be the biggest egotist there, but it turns out that he was better than everyone else!" she was right, I couldn't. But how it felt to be called a dog by his best friend, THAT I could tell in detail. But, being the ever-ready tactician that I was, I decided not to say that. "Jen, you DIDN'T think he was gonna be egotistical. You never think bad things about anyone!"  
  
Jen looked taken aback. "Yes I do!" she said, more confused than angry.  
  
"No you don't! If I insulted Mary out loud right now, what would you say?" I said, leaning forward and almost tipping over my stale Lucky Charms.  
  
"What would you call her?" she seemed a little nervous, as proving me right would make her think of herself differently.  
  
"A stupid, boring, self-centered, prattling empty-headed shrew-of-a-bitch who fu-" I was cut off by Jen. "I would say that you're only seeing one side of her. That she is perfectly capable of being a deep and sensible girl,"  
  
"You see? You see something so deep that you can't see anything close-up," I said. God, am I a philosopher! "Jen's far-sighted?" Lydia said, coming into the kitchen. "That sucks, 'cause she might have to get glasses. And everyone knows glasses suck."  
  
We stared at her, mystified. Of all the people in the world, I'd say that Lydia has the best power to mystify anyone with her random comments. Lydia looked at both of us staring at her, from Jen to me and back to Jen, and said, "What?"  
  
Jen turned back to me, and asked, "What did you mean when you said 'being a social outcast?' People didn't ignore you, did they?" she looked worried. Jen is so loyal to her friends that when she's happy and they aren't, she immediately stops being happy to sympathize. Waste of time, in my opinion. Why waste the best years of your life when you could be happy for people who are continually worried about something (guys, girls, weight, hair, the next episode of the Smurfs, what have you)? It just doesn't make sense.  
  
"Even better!" I said, and told my tale of horrible woe to my sister and my roommate, who was eating a Slim-Fast bar and drinking my last bottle of Sunny-D. Jen looked shocked, and I could see her mind trying to locate a loophole, a double meaning that could be put into a positive light. Lydia was silent, and when I was through, she said hopefully, "Maybe he likes bloodhounds?"

* * *

How do I hate college? Let me count the ways. My arms still hurt, my neck was strained, and the Lucky Charms seem to develop a poisonous chemical that kept my stomach rumbling when they get stale.  
  
And yet, I was sitting in my English class, with my heavy textbook and my laptop, trying to concentrate on what Mr. Kalven was saying. It wasn't easy. Mr. Kalven was old and feeble, with a permanently red nose made so by the bottle of vermouth that floats around in his desk. His speech is perpetually slurred, and he seems to forget what he's saying so he'll go off on random subjects and tirades against everything from basketballs to Mesopotamian culture and how it's corrupting our kids these days.  
  
So I finally stopped paying attention. My best friend Charlotte leaned across the aisle and whispered, "So did you go to the party?" I nodded, rolling my eyes. She mouthed, "What happened?"  
  
I wrote her a note telling her the story, and found that it was fun to elaborate on stories that don't seem shocking enough. I could see her looking first confused, (my spellning isn'ty thate grate) and then angry, and then downright pissed.  
  
"Ahem, mish..erm..mish Young?" Mr. Kalven said. Charlotte started, then looked up and said sweetly, "Yes Mr. Kalven?"  
  
"Erm..what do you..uh.. think of the...erm...weather pattern El Nino?" He said, totally off from the subject he had been talking about only moments before (Rice Krispy Treats). Charlotte deliberated for what seemed like a long time.  
  
Now I know Charlotte, and so I bent my head over my notebook so that Mr. Kalven couldn't see my face (not that it really would have mattered anyway, but I would rather have eaten my mother's homemade corn dogs than be asked whether or not I was in favor of pancakes again) and tried to stop laughing.  
  
"I think that El Nino is a serious phenomena that needs to be dealt with along with Care Bears. Yes, I think Care Bears are a threat to society, Mr. Kalven," Char said gravely. Mr. Kalven nodded in an appreciative manner. I couldn't help it, I giggled helplessly into my knuckles. Others were chuckling too, and for a moment, the poor man seemed almost aware that he was being mocked. Then he looked down at his hands and said in a surprisingly clear voice for one so sloshed, said "There will be a paper due on the paper clip. 500 words. Monday. See that you get it done."  
  
And with that, the bell rang.

* * *

Starbucks.  
  
There is nothing at all in this world that can equal it. That's all I have to say. Char and I were sitting in one of those big, warm, amazingly light brown and purple Starbucks's that you see along the highway of life (so poetic). I love the big, cozy, purple and florid armchairs, with a tall hot apple cider (unfortunately, I am allergic to chocolate) in front of me on a small table that I couldn't reach without sitting up. Char and Jen were sitting near me, and Jen was talking about the next weekend.  
  
"There's supposed to be a party at Art Yurgel's house next week. If any of you wanted to come I'd go," she looked at each of us. Char smiled and said, "Art Yurgel? Isn't he the one who tried to jump into a pool with his clothes on and ended up with a broken arm?"  
  
"Yup," I said, " they say the diving board came off worse, though." Both Char and Jenny winced. I had very fond memories of that party. I was at that party that Jen had finally ditched her idiot boyfriend, Rick, when she saw him making out in a corner with Rebecca Inglestien, a sixteen-year- old. That breakup had been one to remember; I'd never seen Jen actually hit someone before, but that swift kick to the nuts suggested either immediate mastery or weeks of practice.  
  
"Who'll be there?" I asked, sipping my cider carefully, watching my sister's face. She went slightly pink, and then said in a would-be-casual voice, "Oh, you know, the old crowd of people. That and-" she stopped.  
  
"Charlie Bingleton?" I finished for her. She flushed a little more, then smiled and nodded.  
  
"And Will Darcy too?" Charlotte asked, looking at me. Jen suddenly did, too, and both pairs of their eyes were drawn to me. Jen said quietly, "Best friends. I suppose Darcy will come, too."  
  
"All right then," I said, sipping my drink and then settling back in my purple, florid armchair. "I think my night of watching late night Care Bears and drinking Sunny-D has been postponed long enough. How about a little me time?" I asked. (I wasn't trying to avoid him, I swear, I just..Well.. anyways-)  
  
"Anyone would think that you don't want to be near Will Darcy again," said Jen smiling slightly. "What's the matter, scared?"  
  
"No! It's just that I-"  
  
"You what?" Interposed Charlotte. "You think he has a point?"  
  
"I've got nothing to prove to anyone, Char!" I almost screeched. God this conversation was getting stupider every second!  
  
"If you want to prove that you think Darcy's right, then you should stay home," said Jen decisively, "if you don't, then come with us, have a good time, and ignore him. Besides, I think you should meet Charlie," both of them looked at me expectantly. A minute stretched by, then two, and finally I gave up trying to play the staring contest with both of them at the same time. ( I don't advise it, it hurts!) and said with a long, drawn out sigh, "Fine. If you're going to be like that, then fine!"  
  
They both smiled and giggled, while I fixed my eyes on a dark-blue traveling mug that I thought might look good as a stocking stuffer. GOD, best friends and sisters can be worse than the worst of enemies when it comes to getting you to do things you really don't want to do. 


	7. Poolrelated stress

A/N: Yes, it's yet another of those pesky author's notes written by those meddlesome kids! Well, kids if you wanted to pretend I'm two (2) people. Sorry I didn't post! Innocence! Innocence! And no, it wasn't finals, but like one of the Saturn Angels I'm too damn lazy. Sorry!!!! I'm just recovering from a state of writer's block, and just when I'd placed extortion on you too! I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry!!!!  
  
By the way, for all those interested, in the Prologue, Lizzy talks about having dredlocks, and then later about having orange hair. Lizzy's hair is in small braids with charm bracelets woven through them. It was never my intention to give her orange dredlocks, because dying your hair after you have dredlocks in isn't fun.... Not that I know that first hand or anything.. Ahem, so here we go.  
  
Chapter 6: Pool-related stress  
  
Have I ever mentioned that I hate Doritos? I'm too lazy to look back and to see if I did, but I hate them with a passion. It might be the cheese that gets stuck to your fingers and tastes like plastic when you lick it off, or it might be the taste of the cooler ranch Doritos. Or, in the end, it might end up being that I'm just insane and can't explain my passionate hatred of those chips.  
  
Whatever the reason was, I was starving. My eyes were level with the snack food table, and I was having yet another staring contest with (try and guess) a bowl of Cooler Ranch Doritos and three (not surprisingly) full bottles of Moxy. Slim pickings. All of the pizza (what little there had been) had been eaten long before we got there.  
  
In case of curiosity, "we" means Jen, Charlotte, Lydia, Mary and me. Kat had a romantic story deadline, and I had a sneaking suspicion that Rowan wouldn't go to a party with me for a long time.  
  
Speaking of which, I saw Jen and Charlie out of the corner of my eye, sitting on the same white plastic lawn chair, talking earnestly. I spent a good five minutes looking at the way they talked to each other: Jen calm and peaceful but assertive, Charlie energetic and forgetful and funny, and (selfish me) all I could think was WHY? Why did Jen get the god guy without even trying while I got stuck with future truck driver Jake and his skuzzy friends? Why do the normal ones always get the guys?  
  
Oookee, that was my small "I'm not worthy" tangent. But come on, it was all too easy to think that when you're stuck between a thin red head with square glasses and a pocket protector and a guy who stared at me continuously in that creepy, cracked-up, stalkeristic way.  
  
The one good thing that I could say about this party other than Jen and Chuckie boy (not that I'll ever really call him that, but it's fun all the same) was that Will Darcy was occupied far, far away from me (aka the other side of the pool) by a (dyed) blonde with dark eyes. So far, no fireworks.  
  
I got up from my squashed position between Stalker Man and Goggle Boy and walked a little, taking care not to go over to the other side of the pool into enemy waters (damn commies..). In retrospect (read: now that I'm dwelling on it obsessively), It must have looked like I was either TRYING to be noticed or a natural pacer. I must have walked the same path back and forth about ten times when there was a tap on my shoulder.  
  
"What now?" I said, not turning around, "I don't want to buy anything, I'm not interested in Green Peace and I do NOT want to repeat what I did last year!"  
  
"Oh? And just what did you do last year, Lizzie-me-love?" came a very familiar voice behind me. I gasped and turned around, immediately hugging the person behind me. Now this may seem a little out of context, but let me explain. Behind me was my uncle. My COOL uncle married to my COOL aunt, who live in a CRAPPY neighborhood in Boston. Now, you might have thought that it was weird to have an old uncle come in unnoticed and un- suspiciousglanceified by preppy college kids, but let me explain (drum roll please) My uncle is only about ten years older than me. (eww, gross, I know) See, my uncle is the "result" of a second marriage between old guy #1 and young (twenties) wife #2. Young (twenties) wife #1 (my real grandmother) was off in Europe somewhere learning how to play Bingo in Italian. So my young (early thirties) uncle could really fit in with us young 'uns.  
  
"Eddy!" (I don't use "Uncle" or "Aunt" when I talk to them, it's like calling Jen "Sister Jen" or something) He laughed and swung me around a little bit and then set me down and stood back, pretending to search my face. "What the hell did you do to her, alien fiend? Where's my niece? Prepare to die!" he waved an imaginary sword in my face and put on his "Inigo Montoya" accent. (All right, so it's incredibly dorky and cheesy, but sometimes you just gotta cut a man loose)  
  
"Oh shut up, stupid head, or I'll force-feed you Moxy slow spoonfuls at a time!" This made him wince, and he looked at me imploringly, "You wouldn't do that to your venerable old uncle, now would ya? Feed an old man long away from his prime the kind of chemicals that make his kidneys implode and his eyes go pop?"  
  
"If anything will make my kidneys implode it's this party," I said, relaxing and crossing my arms. "It's so BORING Eddy! It's like Art Yurgel was just like "I think I'll torture everybody at one time" and decided to throw a part with limited pizza, Moxy, Cooler Ranch Doritos and idiot rich kids on the other side of the pool,"  
  
"Next thing ya know, they'll be hauling out the chains, whips, and polka party music and taking over the world,"  
  
"Ooooh, bondage,"  
  
"Not something I wanted to think about at the moment, Lizard. Why are you here if you don't like it? You could be home drinking Sunny-D and watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but you came to this part-ay instead?"  
  
"All my Sunny-D is gone, Eddy. Lydia had the last bottle. But I'll show you why I'm here.." I pointed to where Jen and Charlie sat in the deepest of "totally obsessed with each other and not afraid to show it" conversation. "To your left you will see the two animals courting each other. Notice the distinctive dance they-" I was cut off rudely by an elbow in my side.  
  
"Stop being an idiot. What's his name?"  
  
"Charles Bingleton III," I said nonchalantly, eyeing my uncle through my superior peripheral vision (no comments from the peanut gallery). He choked quite satisfyingly and turned to me and croaked, "What? What did you say?"  
  
"Oh, so you've heard of Charlie? Funny, he's not all that famous from what I hear. But that might be me. Yes, she's going out with Charlie Bingleton III- are you okay?"  
  
My poor dear uncle seemed to be hyperventilating. Maybe it didn't help that I slapped his face a couple of times in a botched attempt to restore him back to his youthful vigor and whatever, or maybe it did. All I know is that at that minute there was a shout of "5-4-3-2-1!!!!!!" and everyone standing close enough to the pool (which would include Eddy and li'l ole me) were shoved/pushed/beaten/kicked/hit with a really hard, large silver tray to the back of the head, into the comically undersized pool.  
  
Me, always dressed and prepared for every occasion, got caught in my Rainbow Bright skirt and my beaten down combat boots and sunk rather pathetically to the bottom of the pool.  
  
Now before you mourn the loss of your favorite character (aka me) remember that help, even when it's unwanted (which in this case it was not) from someone you DESPISE (which in this case it was) always comes along somehow. So there was I, all alone in the universe, floating to the bottom of a pool owned by a guy who drank Moxy and ate Doritos on a regular basis, when someone grabbed my hand and pulled to the surface.  
  
I gasped for breath, but the pulling didn't stop there. It only stopped when my back was scraped against concrete and some one had hauled itself to lie down next to me. Me, always graceful, coughed up water on the thoroughly wet person next to me. I could hear Jen saying "Lizzie hon, are you okay? Jesus Lizzie speak to me!" and Lydia saying soothingly, "She's breathing, that's always a good sign. Don't worry, she'll be okay," and Mary spazzing out in the distance, "OhmigodpmigodwhatwillItellherparents? She'sdeadshe'sdeadandI'llnevertalktohearagain!OhpleaseGodlethersaysomethings othatIdon'thavetobescarredbydeathsoearlyinlife, causethatcauseswrinkles,Ohmigodohmigod.." "What do you want me to say, the ABC's? The Gettysburg address? Have me sing the Gummi Bear theme song in its entirety?" I croaked sarcastically. A little mean after nearly drowning, but I was willing to live with that.  
  
I sat up to thank the person next to me for saving my precious, precious life. The eyes I met were dark brown and had lots of sparkles in them. Ahem, not that I notice that kind of thing... But all of that brown, sparkly magic was lost when I saw those eyes permanently fixed into the head of William Darcy, my one sworn enemy. "Oh GOD," my mind said rather eloquently. I stood up quickly, and fought my dizziness. Darcy also got up with me. Everyone was watching, obviously wanting me to thank him and fall in love with him and everything like that. I wasn't about t throw myself on my knees and beg for his forgiveness at my having given him the impression that I looked like a bloodhound at that first party.  
  
But, he DID save your life, said that all too sensible part of my mind. You have to thank him.  
  
So I did. "Thank you for helping me- oh what was your name again?" I said it innocently, only the people who knew that I knew who he was would suspect anything. Unfortunately, he was one of them. But he smiled a little coldly and said, "Will Darcy, and you're welcome,"  
  
"Goodbye Mr. Darcy," I turned around and walked away. My entourage (if you could call them that) followed behind rather dazedly.  
  
****************************** (I think you get the idea, it's a page break)  
  
I saw her walk away, saw him stand there for a second, confused. Well, he would not be confused while I was there. I walked up behind him, and said into his ear, "I bet I can guess what you're thinking,"  
  
He turned around, looking for all the world as if he were amused. Funny, he'd never laughed at me before. Maybe I was mistaken.  
  
"Can you Emma? Can you read my mind like you say you can?" Still that secret smile. What WAS going on?  
  
"Yes, you were thinking how badly mannered these people are here, and longing that you were back in Paris with your sister."  
  
"No, I was thinking how much a beautiful pair of eyes can make a person forget everything but how worthy he must be to be able to look into them everyday," he said distantly.  
  
WHOSE EYES? "Whose eyes might those be?" I asked casually.  
  
His smile widened, "Lizzie Bennet's,"  
  
And I had never been so surprised in my life.  
  
A/N: Hey, it's me again. Yeah, It's the way of life, author's notes harassing you at the beginning to read and review, and then there it comes again at the bottom of the screen, harassing you once more to do something. But this is different.  
  
My good friend Tessandra and I have been writing a story together since we were in 7th grade. It's called "The Thieves of Ollanee" yeah, we couldn't find a better title at ten at night. But you should read it anyway. Just search for that title or for our Pen name.. TessChild. Isn't it so imaginative? I just love the creativity wafting out of us.  
  
Also, read my other Story, "The Two Dragons" it's kinda good, and I only have 3 reviews for two chapters. *Sigh*  
  
Another recommendation: Anything by Blazingmoon. (I'm gonna start recommending titles/stories/authors at the end of every chapter, so be prepared)  
  
Sorry again for the delay, but writer's block has been pounding my brain for the past 2-3 weeks. Innocence! Innocence!! Toodles, Infant of Luna 


	8. Why idiots should be outlawed

A/N: Howdy y'all! Sorry, I've been watching Spongebob, and Sandy was in one of the episodes.On to the subject. Thank you all for your patience and loving care, and I would take it very nicely if you told everyone you know about this story, even your old granny and your baby brother, whose virgin/old and offendable (is that a word?) ears/ eyes would have a problem with my writing style. *Sighs* Do you know what? I lost my P&P book this weekend, so I have very little idea of what happens next, can you believe that? I'll either have to buy the A&E P&P (hee hee, initials with & signs.fun) movie, or I'll rely on you other P&P fans to help me out with what happens next. Hmmmmm.which one? AHHHH!! Decisions!!!  
  
Amphitrite/Jaqueline Schaeffer/NiMiBabe/Lizzie4darcy: I love you all, and thank you to NiMiBabe and Jaqueline for being such loyal readers. I hope you like this one.  
  
Kelly: Thanks, and I hope you like this chapter, too  
  
Lupi: I feel special NOW! Thank you for giving me your permission (hehee). Which is more important, good grammar, or a good story? Whichever way, it's hard to read story that doesn't fit both categories at one time or another. This story is fun, so don't praise it that much (though praise is NICE () And I LOVE Darcy too, besides Lizzie, he's is my favorite character, and despite how much I adore Colin Firth, I don' think my Darcy could ever look like him.thinner (leaner, Colin's not FAT), darker, more MYSTERIOUS.the list goes on.  
  
Nelly: Yup, it does actually make some sense to me (probably because I'm so damn crazy that everything makes sense, who knows?) But unless that idea is sooooo popular when I go to write a chapter, I may not do it, because a lot of things changing in my story confuse me when I got to write the next bit.  
  
Organized-chaos: cheesy love songs are good for the soul doncha know. I'll read one of your stories soon, I promise.  
  
Blazing-moon: did you know that when I try to search for you on ff.net, fido doesn't come up with ANYTHING??? What am I doing wrong??? By the way, Jonathon's a sexy name, sort of, but it's too overused to be as sexy as a rare name like Will/Westley/Jack/Calum. I adore the movie too, and wish I had it, but I'm a cheap bastard who only spends money on food and Pocahontas stickers, so I don't think I'll get it soon. And WHY WON'T YOU UPDATE?????????? AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!  
  
Saturn Angels: Thor: Don't judge to quickly there I'm not all THAT procrastinating (shut up Hannah). Vale: OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY *pause for breath* OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY. Vince: Thanks, and I hope to see more reviews, you guys rock!  
  
Tessandra: You don't really NEED one of these thingys, but it's fun so I'll do it anyway. Math class sucks, as you could tell from my screaming it on Weds. All the people there are like "Scatter plot? That's INSANE!!!" over and over and over and over and over.. Hmmm. We need to have a movie night sometime and rent our wonderful regression movies like "Return to Neverland" or something! Toodles!  
  
Anyhoo: Chapter 7 (can you believe it's already 7?): Why idiots should be outlawed  
  
If you were to ask me which confuses me most: calculus or my mom, I would go with my mom. If you were to ask which annoyed me more: whiny children or my mom (what's the difference?) I would have to go with my mom. If you were to ask which I hated most: Doritos or my mom, I would have to go with Doritos. But you can bet anything that I would hate my mom more if she were covered in powdery, artificial cheese and had "Cooler Ranch" written across her label.  
  
So when she showed up at our house a week before Christmas, you can imagine what it was like for me, the one answering the door.  
  
"*mom*.hi! How.are you?" was my dazzlingly eloquent response. Mom didn't notice at all, but then, she never does.  
  
"Lizzie dahlin' where the hell's your sister?" (hey, just because she's my mother doesn't make her school appropriate).  
  
Upstairs, locking herself in the bathroom. "Upstairs, drying her hair,"  
  
"Why would she want to do that when she could be talking to me? God dammit Lizzie, what is WRONG with my children? You GIVE 'em EVERYTHING, and they TAKE and ask for more," She stood in the living room, stripping off the brown pair of leather gloves that she had had since I was two. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the empty bottle of Sunny-D that I had been drinking from before a) I had finished and b) SHE had come; the pillow that had the stain from that rancid yogurt that Kat had saved Rowan from eating at the last minute but had never washed out of the pillow case; and the holes in the walls that she had told us to leave for her to fix last Christmas. They saw everything but me, standing RIGHT in front of her. God, you'd think they could treat stupidity along with every other mental deficiency, but that's the world, I guess.  
  
I went into the kitchen, where Rowan had been skulking, trying to lay low for a while.  
  
"It's useless Row, she can smell your fear. Like that snake in that snake movie."  
  
"Anaconda?"  
  
"That's the one!" I opened the fridge with a bang as I heard my mom go up the stairs and shrill in that nasal, sing-songy voice of hers: "Jeee- een, oh JE-En! Darling let me look at you!"  
  
"I fell bad for her," I said, opening another bottle of Sunny-D.  
  
"Who, your mom?" Rowan said quizzically. I shot him a LOOK.  
  
"No. JEN. She has to put up with mom the whole holiday vacation. I just get her varying scorn/pity. Jen has to get her loving attention everyday."  
  
Rowan shuddered.  
  
**********************  
  
"Which one, Liz-mastah? The pink or the green?" Charlotte asked holding two Barbie dolls up by their hair.  
  
"What are you doing with those things, Char?"  
  
" Oh I was wondering which one to send to my aunt as a lawn ornament," It was a renowned fact that Charlotte's aunt, after one disappointing relationship in high school, had given up men to take up her real passion: decorating lawns. I only visited there once, ad I never plan to go back. That place is, besides of course the obvious exception of Chuck E. Cheese's, THE creepiest place I have ever been. (I mean, have YOU ever seen garden gnomes in every room of a house, including the guest room beds?)  
  
"Oh, the pink, I guess. It would go well with her fluorescent green prom night gnome couple," I said distractedly, wondering whether to get Rowan the Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots that I wanted for myself.  
  
Yeah, you guessed it. We were in a toy store. Some of the best presents come from toy stores, ya know. You should try that sometime.  
  
It was November, and there was already snow on the ground. Thank GOD, in my opinion. There hadn't been any snow on the ground for Christmas, let alone for Thanksgiving, in three years. The world outside was a picture from a collector's edition commemorative plate depicting "A White Christmas," or "Baby's First Christmas" with all the snow, snow suits, and fresh faced youngsters skipping about in a land of white.  
  
"Oh well, at least Jen in with Charlie today, instead of with my mom," I said, reluctantly picking up the Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots and going to the cash register.  
  
"Well, I dunno, Liz, your mom does have some endearing qualities," I whirled around, nonplussed. "Yep, she can send fire alarms off with her voice, and how many moms do you know who will send five squad cars after her daughter when she goes to the mall? Talk about heavy protection,"  
  
"Number One: eww. Bad condom joke. Number Two: that wasn't for my protection, that was to make sure there was a quick way to the police station if I was caught shop lifting,"  
  
Charlotte shrugged. "Oh well, I guess you just gotta put a bad spin on things doncha?"  
  
"No, I just gotta be me," I said, and walked up to the cash register, humming "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,"  
  
Hey, sometimes you just have to tell the truth.  
  
********************  
  
"AndomigodheissocutehehasgottabethecutestpersonIhaveevermetohhohhohhhe'ssuch ahunk!!!!" Guess who? Yeah, you got it right. Kudos to you!!!  
  
""Lizzie, tell Mary that if she doesn't shut up about that damn Denny guy, I'll seriously light her teeny bopper socks on fire," Kat said sourly, looking up from a romance novel chapter she was writing. (I couldn't read most of it, but what I could catch was a bunch of adjectives, like "Hard" "Muscular" "Soft" "Supple" "Dark" "Silky" and "Moist". Yeah, I know)  
  
"Oh give in to the Christmas cheer, Kat," Lydia said next to me, "You're only supposed light wood on fire during the season of giving and family," Lydia added as she rolled her eyes.  
  
"I truly agree," said my mother's high-pitched squeak as she waltzed into the room, taking (yet again) the words at face value. "Which is why, Jen dahling," she said, directing her gaze over to my sister who sat, drinking herbal tea and reading a letter, "You simply HAVE to go to Bingleton's house like he invited you to!"  
  
Our heads whipped around, and we all stared at Jen. Kat and Rowan and I in disbelief that my mom had known before we had, Lydia in amazement that things had "gotten so far so fast" and Mary because everyone else was looking at Jen.  
  
Jen sent me a hunted glance, and I realized that she hadn't mentioned it because 1) She didn't know about it (my mother has a nasty habit of opening Jen's likely-looking mail and 2) If she'd mentioned it, it would have reminded mom that she had something to order Jen to do.  
  
"Mom, shut up," I said, totally surprising myself, not to mention everyone around me. "Jen doesn't have to do anything you want anymore." I looked at Jen, carefully avoiding my mom's eyes.  
  
"So what's this about Charlie inviting to his house?"  
  
Jen blushed furiously, and I heard Kat go "Ow-ow!" in the background (not the hurting kind of "ow", more like the "ooh, scandalous' kind. Just thought you should know)  
  
"He, well, he invited me to his home for a few days. You know, just to get to know his sisters and Will Darcy better, and all that stuff," She said this last part quickly, because she knew I HATED not only (of course) Darcy, but Emma and Sarah Bingleton, his obnoxious, hoity-toity, snot nosed, designer-wearing, idiotic man-catching sisters. I normally WOULD have snorted, but the look on Jen's face me catch myself mid-snort. Okay, so SHE liked his sisters. She might as well keep on liking them until they do something to her (as I had no doubt they would) to undermine her self- esteem. Nothing I could say would stop her from seeing the "good" in everyone.  
  
"Sounds good to me," Rowan said slyly, "Just as long as you promise to 'get to know' Charlie better, too."  
  
"Yeah, less of the Darcy, more of the Bing-ley," put in Kat, and for a moment, Rowan and Kat caught each other's eye and I realized I had to do something about those two before they started becoming hopeless, love-sick swains.. Like Romeo and Juliet, or Calvin and Susie from Calvin and Hobbes.  
  
"As long as YOU want to, Jen," said Lydia worriedly, looking at my sister.  
  
"Well THAT'S settled," said my mother brusquely, before Jen could say anything. "Now, you might as well start walking, it's snowing pretty hard, and you need to be there by dinner,"  
  
For a moment, we all smiled weakly at the "joke", and then I saw the look on my mom's face.  
  
"Oh, you're not kidding.." I was SO damn confused. Why would you want Jen to walk all the way there in the snow?  
  
"Aunt Janet, why would you want Jen to walk all the way there in the snow?" asked Rowan. "She'll get sick!"  
  
"That's just what I want!" She said, surprised at our stupidity in comprehending this idea. "If gets sick, she'll have to stay there for longer than a couple of days, and Charlie Bingleton will REALLY pay attention to her then!" She rubbed her hands together, looking like she'd discovered the secret to life, the universe, and everything (42). I wanted to HIT her soooooooooooooooo badly. What IDIOT would want their daughter to get sick just for the sake of having a rich son-in-law?  
  
But mom wouldn't be persuaded to let Jen drive there, or wait until tomorrow. Finally, Jen wrapped herself in a down jacket and three sweatshirts, hat, gloves, two pairs of pants, boots, and picked up her suitcase, walked out and away.  
  
Guess what happened the next day?  
  
Check your answers.  
  
The phone rang, and I picked it up, my hair tousled and my hand clasping a cup of boiling-hot water (we were out of coffee).  
  
"Umm, Lizzie?" came Charlie's voice on the other end.  
  
"Oh God, what's the matter with Jen?" Was my immediate, and I might say, insightful reaction. I LOVE days when I actually get something right!  
  
"Umm, she's kinda-sick."  
  
"How sick?"  
  
"Hypothermia,"  
  
And THAT'S why idiots should be outlawed.  
  
  
  
A/N: What'd you think? I like it, and more's comin'! All hail Tessandra and Blazing-moon, who FINALLY updated their stories. And everyone read "La Petit Cabriole" I don't know who it's by, but it's in the Jane Austen section. I love it (except the whole things with the names of the characters in France being the last names of the characters in the book with "de" added onto the beginning. Creative, huh? But it's a good story, so read it. And could you do me a favor? Read my other story, the "Two Dragons" and then also the story that Tessandra and I wrote together, "The Thieves of Ollanee" even MORE creative, huh? LOVE them. I LOVE all of you who reviewed, and I hope to get the next chapter up quicker. Danku, danku. 


	9. The Best Part of Wakin' up is Folgers in

A/N: Yay, I got this up earlier! Hooray for the wonderful Moonchild! This one promises some "discussion" (or heated, mad-ass arguments, take your pick) between Lizzie and the Darce-master.  
  
One more thing: I've gotten about two complaints about this story's rating. Do you think it needs to be changed? PLEASE tell me!  
  
I just realized that I change the way I spell Lizzy's name. If this annoys you, I'm sorry, but I happen to be (among other things) an inconstant idiot.  
  
Chapter 8: The best part of wakin' up is Folgers in your cup  
  
So here are the facts as they stand:  
  
My mother is an IDIOT, and sent Jen out to WALK to Charlie Bingleton's in the snow.  
  
Jen now has hypothermia.  
  
Charlie has just informed of that fact over the phone.  
  
My socks are wet  
  
Okay, so maybe that wasn't THAT big a deal (#4 I mean), but as I stepped into yet another bank of snow that had remained conveniently invisible until my foot found it, it seemed like one. Maybe I was getting hypothermia too...  
  
Fat chance.  
  
The snow had stopped, luckily for me, and I could see where I was going. My little backpack full of the things I needed (aka 1. book (The Little Engine that Could) 2. two pairs of socks 3. pair of pants and finally 4. a tee shirt.) felt a lot heavier than it should have, but I wasn't going to stop walking until I got to Charlie's for fear of my feet (in their ever-so-sensible, three-year-old red high tops) would freeze to the pavement. I tried singing "High-ho, high-ho, it's off to work we go" to pass the time, but was rewarded with a thin croak of what should have been a singing voice, but had ended up being replaced by something resembling a lawn mower, and the weird looks from the people passing by in their nice, warm, rich, shiny, expensive, snooty CARS. Gahhhh!!!!  
  
And so the time passed. (Yes, I know, sad isn't it?)  
  
And yet, suddenly, I turned a corner and I was THERE. The big mansion was still there, still the same, still HUGE and un-world conscious (not like ME). But it looked better than anything just then, as my butt was freezing and my eyelashes were stuck together and I couldn't remember the first verse of the Beer Song was.  
  
The door opened, and there was the same penguin butler, the same gold-leaf pillars, the same two rooms (minus the smoke/alcohol/crappy music). And there were the same two guys I had overheard that night and-oh God.  
  
"Lizzy!" said Charlie, and he broke away from his conversation with Darcy and trotted up to me. Charlie's sisters were on the top level, which you could see because their house had a grand staircase and those little walkway thingies along the sides of the walls on the upper floor. The one I had seen talking to Darcy the night of the pool party (if you could actually CALL that a party) was leaning against the banister and eyeing me with that annoying "what is someone like YOU doing HERE????" look. Me, the ever intelligent, transcendent goddess of eloquence, ignored them and smiled at Charlie before taking off my backpack, coat and scarf, and handing them to the suddenly-there butler (SO classy) and stammered, "Um, W- where's Jen?"  
  
Way to knock 'em dead Liz. Smooth.  
  
Charlie lead me up the stairs (Darcy tagged along behind, much to my displeasure) and Emma's eyes watching disdainfully as we walked along another corridor, and down along another plush, plush, plush, plush (can I say it enough?) carpet. Before we came to a door.  
  
Have I ever said how much I LOVE canopy beds in princess-like rooms? Have I ever mentioned the fact that I have NEVER been in a room that had one NOT for museum display purposes? This room  
  
Was huge  
  
Had TWO (count 'em) TWO of those princessy-type beds  
  
"Wow, I guess you figured I was comin' then, huh?" I said, my mouth still wide open and my eyes about as big as hubcaps (though how I could talk like that, I've got no idea). The butler had (surprisingly) already been there, and there was my little backpack and coat and hat were hanging up to dry around the (gilt) fireplace with its (real) fire.  
  
"We had it figured out at 'Hold on just a minute, I'm coming over'" said Darcy. I looked at him acidly, and he gave me look for look.  
  
"Well gee, I had no idea you were listening. Next time I'll be sure to add a couple more 'All hail Darcy'ies before I hang up,"  
  
"Hah! You wish you had an idea half as good as that!"  
  
"You know what? You're right. But I have a really good one now. Just in the nick of time, too. Why don't YOU leave, so I can dry off and get the feeling back in my nose and toes (which by the way rhymes), so I can be ready to do battle on how blood-houndish I look today, Mr. Fancypants!" Well, it wasn't particularly snappy, but I guess it got his attention one way or another.  
  
He left. Wow, aren't my persuasive skills advanced.  
  
*************** Journal Entry # 140 page 270  
  
Well THAT went well, Willy-me-boy, I thought to myself as I stalked off down the hallway. If you hadn't been so insulting, she might not hate you more than she already does.  
  
But, went on that nastily, irritatingly, scarily logical part of my brain, If she wasn't so odd and unpredictable, you might have been able to apologize quickly without losing your dignity.  
  
Ah yes, dignity. That was what it came down to: dignity and pride. If she hadn't been the amazingly, irritatingly, scarily different and capricious, I would have thought myself automatically immune to whatever concerned her. I would have continued life and let Emma Bingleton look at me like she did and one I might actually do something for it.  
  
But, goddamn her, the cool confidence with which she had stood up and walked between Charlie and me, and the practiced, even look she had given me that night by the pool, had totally shaken the world I had built around myself since age seven, her with her orange hair and Rainbow Bright skirts, her and her friends, the drunken, sobbing Weezer guy, and that young man she had been talking to by the pool. The man with whom she was so familiar it made me want to walk around that pool and ring his neck. She was fascinating, and crazy, and odd, and smart, and totally, unbelievably, wonderfully, magically REAL.  
  
Jesus, I just read what I wrote. What the hell? How can all of this happen to someone who has never even had a conversation past a few heated, angry words with the person he...loves?  
  
No, no way. Infatuation with the unattainable, that's it.  
  
And what are you going to do about it, Will?  
  
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.  
  
Later-  
  
"What the hell are we going to do about her?"  
  
I looked up. Emma and Sarah were on the other side of the drawing room, deep in conversation. I focused my eyes on the letter I was writing, but my ears pricked up to catch their conversation.  
  
"...What can we do? Charlie won't have her leave, he asked her here, and Will has no say about what goes on in the house. I propose we just sit here and wait it out, she'll kick herself out of here one way or another."  
  
Lizzy, they were talking about getting rid of Lizzy.  
  
"Oh, well what about-"began Emma, but just then Charlie came in through the door, and all plots of sabotage were postponed.  
  
But Lizzy-bashing wasn't.  
  
"Charlie, did you SEE her?" asked Emma in a scandalized voice.  
  
"SEE who, Em?"  
  
"Lizzy Bennet, of course! She looked so shitty walking through that door. She lives like, what, a mile and a half away, and the ditzy loser thinks she can just WALK here?"  
  
"She doesn't own a car, Em," said Charlie smoothly, but I could tell by how straight he sat in his armchair how angry he was getting.  
  
"Okay, fine, a POOR ditzy loser." Emma said sulkily. Sarah tried another tactic.  
  
"Charlie, you know how much we love Jen. She's sweet and pretty and talented...it's just that Lizzy is none of those things. She has no fashion sense-"  
  
"-I mean, did you SEE her shoes? And her jeans were wet a full six inches above the hem, I swear-"  
  
"- And she's not a very nice person. We don't want Jen to be upset by a nasty sister who doesn't treat anyone, maybe not even JEN nicely, now do we?"  
  
My blood was also beginning to boil, and if I hadn't worked so long in training myself to be inscrutable all the time, then I would have let some of my true anger slip.  
  
"You two are so petty, did you know that?" Charlie said scathingly. "Lizzy is really nice to everyone she respects and trusts. Her trust isn't all that hardly won; based mostly on first impressions-" there I winced slightly "- and she loves her sister more than anything, and Jen returns that love. You can't be bitchy and have it go away, okay? She's staying as long as Jen is, and that's final," Touché.  
  
"And what do you feel on the subject, Will?" Emma said, acting like I was the one who made these kinds of decisions. "I'm sure we'd all like to hear your opinion on what to do about fine eyes," She meant it as a barb, but I guess she's taken to sharpening her tongue with a sponge, for the metaphorical barb flopped on the floor and lay there twitching for a few seconds.  
  
I pulled my eyes from the floor and gazed at her long and levelly. "This isn't my house, Emma, and you know it. Leave Lizzy alone, she's got enough to worry about,"  
  
"Ooh, look who's playing the knight in shining armor,"  
  
"I like to think of myself as heroic, Sarah, but please don't over blow my importance. Really, you two are amazing. One girl who doesn't resemble you in looks, actions and class, and she's got you running scared. What *will* the neighbors think?"  
  
My barb, however, hit home, and poor, beautiful, heartless Emma was left gaping like a fish for several minutes afterwards.  
  
**************** (Lizzy time now, chillens)  
  
"Goddamn shoes! Why won't you dry off?" I yelled at my blameless, sagging high tops. The blow dryer in my hand (which said "High Heat Drying Action For Even The Toughest Hair") was doing diddly on my shoes, and I had been sitting here on this bathroom floor for just over a half an hour.  
  
"Goddamn hair dryer! Why won't you work?" I smacked the thing sharply on the round in the idiotic assumption that by whacking this crappy, over priced, misadvertised hair dryer, it would actually start working like magic (ooh, magic). Take a gander at how wrong I was.  
  
It stopped working all together, just lay there, dead in my left hand while my poor, bedraggled shoe flopped forlornly in my right.  
  
"Goddammit!!!!!!!!!" I beat my hand against the bathroom floor in anger, only to jam one of my fingers on the spotless, polished tile.  
  
"ARGH!!!!! This stupid house! Oh cruel fate, why must you mock me? WHY? WHYYYYYYY???"  
  
"Umm, Lizzy?" came a muffled voice on the other side of the door. "Are you okay?"  
  
"How can a person possibly be okay when their shoes are wet and a crappy, idiotic hair dryer is the only thing standing between her and her dream of having dry shoes and ruling the world?"  
  
"How indeed? Can you come out so that we know that you're not more mentally damaged than you were before?" I stiffened against the door immediately, as I recognized the voice. Of all the people to come when I'm having a mental breakdown, it just HAD to be Will Darcy...  
  
"Go away, please," I said as levelly as I could manage through clenched teeth. I just knew I was going to have serious dental problems at the end of this happy little visit.  
  
"Well, that was surprisingly polite," came his badly timed, cynical, insanely annoying comment from the other side of the wonderful, blessed, clever, dear, three-inch oak door complete with brass doorknobs and full- length mirror.  
  
"Next time I'll scream obscenities, if you prefer. My low upbringing has provided me with some good ones."  
  
"I told you, I'm not leaving until I make sure that you're not zombified,"  
  
"WILL DARCY IS A MOTHER F-"  
  
"That's enough!" he cut me off quickly, making me giggle a little before I controlled myself into the calm, firm, serious, no-nonsense woman I normally am.  
  
"I thought I already was something horrible, *Master* Darcy," I said scathingly, suddenly wanting to get out of the bathroom very much, knowing the only way I was gonna get any impetus to get my humongous butt off that floor.  
  
Well, almost. Through the door, I faintly heard a small moan from the bed.  
  
"Enhhhh...Lizzy..." It was Jen.  
  
My time record for getting out of that door was the third fastest in track history (the first being Monty Philipano in his sheet toga in his haste to get away from his pissed off wife)  
  
"Jen!" I sat on the edge of the bed, taking one of her insanely small hands. At least she was coherent now.  
  
"Hey...mom was wrong," she said, with a small smile.  
  
"When is she ever not?" I said, reaching to get a cup of coffee from the bedside table, aware all the time that Darcy was still standing near the bathroom door.  
  
"Drink some of this. It's okay for year-old Folgers. Something tells me that someone in this house doesn't want me to have a good minute of it- Oh come on, you know it's true!"  
  
I gave Jen the musty, coffee-flavored mud sip by sip. Still Darcy just stood there near the door, not moving, just like the stump he was. Finally, just because I wanted him out of my hair while I had enough dye and charm bracelets in it already, I turned my head to look at him in what I hoped was a cold way and snapped, "Do you mind leaving, please? I don't think that it does anyone any good to have you just stand there, doing nothing. If you feel like being useful for once, you can find where that goddamn doctor is, and what's taking him so long,"  
  
The small smile that had been on his face vanished. He bowed extravagantly, flourishing his hand in a way that was extremely mocking to my *flawless* character.  
  
"As you wish, Your Majesty,"  
  
Then he left.  
  
"That...wasn't particularly nice...you know,"  
  
"Neither was he," I said, catching my sister's eye pointedly.  
  
"Didn't you see...the way he was staring...at you?"  
  
"Hypothermia causes hallucinations too? I didn't know that," I mocked, pretending to feel her forehead for fever.  
  
"You... need to loosen up Liz. You're not gonna get eaten...alive here."  
  
"I'll loosen up later, when I'm home and have killed mom and framed Emma Bingleton for the murder. Now you go to sleep," Her eyes were closing rapidly, and it was only a few moments before she was half asleep.  
  
"Aren't you...a nice girl today," she smiled dreamily.  
  
"I'll die before I get classified as 'a nice girl'" I said. Too late, she was already asleep. 


	10. Screw Your Courage to The Sticking Place

A/N: *Bows Down Low and Bangs Head on Floor* I have finished chapter 9 for you, my liege! Here it is, in all its scholastic glory, the 9th wonder of the world!  
  
Oh ye of little faith! Who said that I can't upload/date my next chapter in a punctual and brilliant manner? If you're speaking of my "past experiences", that was only ONE chapter, and it was only HALF because of my laziness. The other two halves were totally due to writer's block.  
  
And down the rabbit hole to:  
  
Chapter 9: Screw Your Courage To the Sticking Place  
  
"What are you doing, Will? Won't you join us to thrash Charlie at bridge?"  
  
I glanced up from my incredibly boring book to where Darcy sat at a desk, writing what looked like an epic ballad really, really fast. Chipmunk on steroids, my mind diagnosed, and I tried hard not to snicker as he turned and looked at Emma, who was holding the ugly five-suit deck out.  
  
"No, thank you, I need to write to my sister. Perhaps Ms. Bennet will play with you," he said.  
  
Oh no, oh please GOD no, don't do this to me, please...  
  
"She's too wrapped up in her book to take any interest in a silly little game like bridge, now aren't you, Ms. Bennet?" Emma said scathingly. I didn't mind a bit. Honestly. The day I sit down and play BRIDGE, (BRIDGE of ALL games) with a couple of whiny brats will be a cold day in hell, in my estimation.  
  
I forced a big, impressively fake smile, and said, "Of course, Emma, you're too thoughtful. I am enjoying my book, and I don't think I'll intrude into your game,"  
  
"Oh, no, you should come play with us!" she countered quickly, making me momentarily suspicious of some strange and unexplainable mood swing disorder (aka: make-Lizzy-as-uncomfortable-as-possible-even-if-it-means- being-within-bullet-range-of-her-it is) "I bet you could teach Charlie here a thing or two with your advanced skill," Ooh. If it had been any LESS of a zinger, her lips would have frozen over. As it was, I detected some faint lip ice beginning to form around her lipstickled yap.  
  
So I smiled, pretending that it was friendliness and not glee at seeing her so idiotic as well as vain.  
  
Fun fun.  
  
"No, I'm sorry, but I can't play bridge. So you'll just have to go without my 'teaching Charlie there a thing or two with my advanced skill,' "  
  
God PLEASE get me out of this house.  
  
"Whatever. So Charlie, what's shakin' at Pemberley this time of year? Anything new we should know about your sis?"  
  
Ooh, hip-and-happnin' Emma's bustin' a move. Watch out everyone, here she goes with her street-style vocab-oo-lary!  
  
"My sister just got back from Paris, and has a new horse," said Darcy, still not lookin up from his letter.  
  
Well, sounds like a plan to me. Horses, Paris, having the frigid Darcy-bitch for a brother, all seems to lead straight to a very repressed individual whose only real pleasure came when her brother left and she could run away with random rich boys and make mad love in the moonlight.  
  
But Emma just smiled sweetly (she did have straight teeth) and said, "Oh, your sis is SUCH a sweetie! And she's so talented and everything! We just don't get enough time with her, we never do,"  
  
Gag me with a friggin' pitchfork, hag. If you wanna jump the guy, then cut the crap and get it over with. On an impulse, I asked, a wee bit spitefully, "What completes your definition of nice and talented, Emma? I mean, I'm sure Mr. Darcy's" ( I couldn't help calling him that) "sister is sweet and talented, like you say, but how can you be sure if someone's really talented?"  
  
The two she-demons looked like they wouldn't be very averse to biting my fingertips off and feeding the rest of me to a pack of snarling, ravenous smurfs. But before they could express any outrage at being called ambiguously talented, Charlie burst in.  
  
"All girls are talented, in their own way. All of them can sing, draw, paint, dance and play instruments. I guess that all people can be considered equally talented, when you think about it,"  
  
This brought the best mixed look of disgust and dismay that I have ever seen on a human face. Except maybe that time when I drove mom's car through crap-infested swamp (an accident I swear!)  
  
"Oh no, Charlie! How can you even think it? Not everyone is equal at all! I mean, we're not even just talking about talent, now are we? There's a word, isn't there? A word for having a god talent in many things...?"  
  
Eclectic? Insane? "Accomplished?" I suggested, trying hard not to laugh at her anger that it had been me to supply her dumbness the word she had been looking for.  
  
"Yeah, accomplished! It's MORE than talent, it's your way of expressing yourself, the way you walk, that sort of thing. There are only a few girls I've ever met that I could call accomplished" Emma made it clear who one of those girls happened to be.  
  
Is this weirding you out? 'Cause it was doing the same to me. Suddenly, I'd stepped into a book from Merry Ol' England. Hell.  
  
"Exactly. I have only met about six in my life," put in Darcy, still not looking up.  
  
"Six? I'm surprised you've met ANY by the standards you're putting up," I said, suddenly sick of this damn conversation.  
  
"You're being a bit harsh, aren't you?" Darcy said, finally taking his eyes off his letter to fix them on me.  
  
"I never saw all of these...things, these-traits put into anyone at the same time."  
  
There was immediately an outburst of rage from the cardstable, and the Medusa sisters began bumbling indignantly about know a lot of people who fit the bill (aka themselves), and I think there was a "blind ditz" thrown at me along the way.  
  
Doncha just love people?  
  
Well, that was it. I was sick of this conversation, sick of the "blind ditz" 's from girls who'd probably never opened a can of soda by themselves before in their lives, and most of all sick of that emotional fuckwit in the corner more commonly referred to as William T. Darcy, but whom I'd rather called Desensitized Worm Man. I wanted to sock all of them (except the uncomfortable Charlie at the card table, of course) a good one in the gob and run for my life, screaming "Vive la Révolution!"  
  
But something, I really don't know what, stopped me. Maybe it was my need to break the tradition and NOT be thrown in the loony bin this year. Maybe it was the fact that that just might have been something my mother would do in my situation (only with her it would be naked/chicken costumed/covered in hot wing sauce).  
  
But it probably was lack of imagination. I always think of these things AFTER the fact! Why can't I get one idea like that at the RIGHT TIME?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!  
  
But I DID do something (Ooooh, ahhhhhh). I got up very quietly, made my goodnights, and left the dang room. (She said "dang" ! Potty mouth!)  
  
****************************** Journal Entry # 141 page 279  
  
The second she'd closed the door, Emma started on her again. "Ugh! That bitch! Do you know what kind of person she is Sarah?" she turned to her equally (I've got no idea why) enraged sister for confirmation of her fears.  
  
"Definitely. She's the kind of HO who tries to get guys by dissing girls, like that's some kind of sick turn-on or something," They both looked like they'd come across the very secret of life, and also a big threat to that secret. A short, strangely-dressed, sarcastic, orange-haired girl who wore Rainbow Bright skirts, had staring contests with Dorito Bowls and was (amazingly) strong enough to carry a drunken, sobbing guy in a Weezer shirt from here back home.  
  
May God help us all.  
  
"I think it's disgusting," said Emma, looking to me for approval. I sighed, ready to protect Lizzy against her posh attackers. And then stopped. Why should I protect her? If I did, that would only heighten resentment, and also make it harder on me. What did I care if she was being insulted when she couldn't hear? She could take care herself, couldn't she? Meanwhile, I owed allegiance to my friends, no matter how indignant I was feeling towards them.  
  
"I agree. Lots of women do that at least once in their life to get men. Anything done with that intention is despicable. I could never stand it,"  
  
Emma pursed her lips, looking very satisfied with herself.  
  
And I never felt worse in my whole life.  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N: HEYO!!!!!!!! I updated, aren't you proud of me! Sorry, I have to study for Midterms, and I have play rehearsals, and...well, you don't want to know the rest, schedules are BORING.  
  
Guess what I got for BOXING DAY!!?!?!?! Pride and Prejudice, the A&E movie (w/ Colin Firth!) AND, and, even though it doesn't get much better...I FOUND my copy of the book! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!  
  
Hooray for life! 


	11. Her Majesty, The Queen

A/N: I decided to treat all of you to a famous, once-in-a-lifetime chance at a chapter of mine updated VERY CLOSE TO THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER!!!!!  
  
For she's a jolly good fellow, for she's a jolly good... fellow?  
  
Oh well, it works.  
  
Thank you all for reviewing, and I'm ecstatically happy that I finally broke 100 reviews. I love you guys! So here it is, the tenth step on the way to glory.  
  
Fasten your seatbelts, buckos; it's a bumpy ride to  
  
Chapter 10: Her Majesty, the Queen  
  
Things went on like this for about a week:  
  
Me sitting in princessy-type room with cup of Folgers sludge;  
  
Me sitting in princessy-type room with cup of Folgers sludge, watching the creepy-psycho doctor like a hawk to make sure he didn't try anything;  
  
Me sitting with book in hand/ playing clock solitaire on little round table while trying hard not to scream and throw things, as I get snide comments directed my way.  
  
Jen and I talking/ eating chicken soup and watching bad cable daytime shows about incestuous twins or fat ladies with skinny husbands (and vice versa) or gigantic puppets shows that last forever and leave you gasping in pain while still singing theme song.  
  
  
  
Then, around the eighth day of my "visit," my mom decided to come round for tea.  
  
The butler knocked on our door. I had taken a liking to this man, who looked like a penguin in a fat suit (quite a feat, eh?) and was soon on self-imposed, one-sided first name/nickname terms with him.  
  
"Ms. Bennet? The master" (read: Charlie Bingleton) "wishes your presence in the drawing room as soon as is convenient," he bowed very low.  
  
How FANCY can you get? Maybe it was something good for once in this godforsaken boondocks of a metropolis residence. I could do with a good surprise.  
  
"Mrs. Bennet, your mother, is here,"  
  
Don't get your hopes up, Lizzy gal, they only get blown up by the cynical Rambo/Rambo II/ Rambo III of reality with their high-tech arrows, big machine guns, and horrible acting jobs.  
  
Yippee.  
  
"Thanks, Pronby" (his name was Pronby Topping. Well, I give his mother points for creativity) "tell him I'll be down in a bit," After I've been foiled trying to escape out through the windows and running to the hills to live a life as a hermit living primarily off squirrel and bits of tree bark and boy scouts.  
  
Well, maybe not the tree bark.  
  
******************  
  
Twenty-five minutes, fifteen seconds, and twelve milliseconds later, I was down in the drawing room (why DO they call it a drawing room? I mean, do you DRAW in a drawing room, or is that just a figure of speech? And why call it a drawing room if you don't use it for that purpose? Why must they mislead poor, innocent, fresh-faced lassies such as myself into thinking that there was something actually interesting going on in all that wasted space?) with my mom, Charlie, Darcy, and the Gorgons. I was greeted with lots of different, reproving looks. My mom for keeping her waiting, Charlie for keeping my mother yakking away at him for over ten minutes, the Medusa sisters for having me be so...me, and Darcy because he was Darcy.  
  
Pompous bastard  
  
"LIZZY DAHLING!!!" gushed my mother. I was vaguely surprised. My mom had never actually seemed truly happy to see me before. "I simply HAD to come when I heard about poor Jen! Imagine walking all the way here in a blizzard! What could she have been thinking? Oh well that is the way of it when you're young... Oh look at this marvelous staircase! I haven't seen one quite like it since that time in Paris, you remember Lizzy? Of course you do, we had such fun, didn't we? Goodness me, I have never seen a carpet so thick as this! Charlie, you dog, where DID you get it, you simply MUST tell me, for I can't be happy until I know. Why this hallway is absolutely GLITTERING! And is that a portrait of young Miss Bingleton I see there? Why yes it is, and done SO lovingly, too. I declare, the artist really HAS captured her look, especially her eyes. Oh- er, Mr. Darcy, could you kindly move to the other side of me? I don't know why, but I have this terrible sense of claustrophobia on my left side. There's no space on my right side? Oh dear, then you'll simply have to walk behind us, now won't you? Terribly sorry about it and all, but can't help it now can I? Oh Lizzy, you are simply TOO thin! Have you not eaten all this time because you were looking after your sister? How WONDERFULLY heroic of you dahling, but you simply MUST eat to maintain your strength....OH MY LORD, LOOK AT THIS ROOM!!!! THIS IS FABULOUS, THIS IS MARVELOUS, THIS IS...TOO GENEROUS OF YOU CHARLIE, SIMPLY TOO GENEROUS OF YOU, YOU ARE SO KIND, SO WARM, SO WELCOMING AS TO INVITE GUESTS LIKE MY DAUGHTERS TO STAY IN ROOMS LIKE THIS YOU ARE-"  
  
I think you pretty much get it. With all the screeching and caterwauling and fussing and gushing and praising issuing from my maternal unit's smiling jaws, is it any wonder that she woke Jen up? And after that, is it any wonder that she asked rather dramatically for a few minutes alone with her precious daughter? And after that, is it any wonder that I spent the whole of five minutes mentally strangling my mom with whatever was readily available (the cord of the traitorous hairdryer, perhaps) over her insults, lies, and ready-made praises outside my sister's door? And after that, is it any wonder my mother came out of the room and tearfully ejaculated the whole story of her daughter's misery and woe to the politely attentive Charlie, and then said (VERY LOUDLY) that Jen couldn't even be CONSIDERED well enough to move for at least another week, and that I, her dear, sweet girl should stay by her sister's side the entire time? And then that she dramatically left, praising the earth and sky and moon and sun and especially praising Charlie Bingleton?  
  
No, it's not really, is it?  
  
The whole of the visit lasted only about an hour, but it was the kind of hour that can ruin your day/week/month/ENTIRE LIFE. I wanted to sink into the floor and become one with the plush carpeting and golden-paneled walls.  
  
Now, I would never truly call myself a vulnerable person, but my mother's visit would probably be material to make the rest of my stay there WORSE THAN THE NINTH RING OF HELL in many respects. Because in the ninth ring of hell, there is only one devil, and the fires consume you nice and quickly, despite the fact that you spend all eternity there (plenty of time to get used to the heat). But in this, the tenth ring, there were THREE devils, plenty of space to roam in and pretend you're free, and nice, cool, sinful Central Air.  
  
As I have said once: CRUEL FATE, WHY MUST YOU MOCK ME?????  
  
And so, another week went by, and the only variation on the whole thing was the added fuel of my mother's visit to the lukewarm forges of those Cyclopses of stupidity, Emma and Sarah, and received more coldness and pomposity from that yowling ass, William Darcy.  
  
And so, when Jen had recovered, and we had said an innumerable amount of goodbyes and answered a bunch of "you-will-come-again?'s" and "have you forgotten anything?'s" and we had hopped into his (REALLY POSH) limo, I heaved the third-biggest sigh of relief ever heaved (the first being Yeoman Arny Fletcher after successfully evaded death at the hands of his crazed half-demon sister for the third time, the second being Master Rodrigo Fromaggio after winning the Scrabble game to end all Scrabble games, when the stakes put up by the evil Dr. Insanoid were the loss of his beloved armadillo, Froufrou and his chain of bubblegum wrappers.) and opened my window as far as it would go, and screamed as loud as my lungs would let me, "FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHA I HATE YOU, EVIL MEDUSA TWINS AND INSIPID EMOTIONAL FUCKWIT WILLIAM DARCYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  
  
If you've never done anything like, you really should.  
  
And so life went back to being relatively normal, despite the fact that I had just discovered two more mortal enemies that had to be dealt with immediately for the sake of my future happiness.  
  
Until the day Stephen Baker showed up.  
  
"Lizzy? Do we have a cousin named Stephen?" called Jen from the computer in the dining room. I was on the couch in the living room, catching up on my Looney Tunes watching. Bugs Bunny was doing the hair of that big red haired monster...thing, and I was totally engulfed.  
  
"Wha? Ummm, dunno," I said, almost missing my mouth with my cereal spoon. I am NOT a morning person, shall we say, added to the fact that I had gone out clubbing with Rowan and Kat the night before. The poor kid was nursing a bruised toe from where he had kicked a brick wall in a game of "Who can do the most without getting hurt?" Stupid game to get into with Kat, if you ask me. I mean,  
  
a#1.) Rowan is a baby. I mean a BIG baby. Probably the BIGGEST baby of all infantile men out there, and that's saying something.  
  
a#2.) I think we all remember or have heard of the glass shard episode (see Chapter 1 if you're a twattering dunderhead). Kat is SUPERHUMAN. It's rather scary, actually.  
  
"Well, this guy called Stephen Baker is e-mailing me, telling me that even though we've never met, we're third or fourth cousins or something like that, and that he's coming here to meet us,"  
  
"Creepy," I said, coming over to read the message over her shoulder.  
  
"Dear Jennifer Bennet- "I know that we have never met, but please be so good as to let me introduce myself. My name is Rev. Stephen Baker, and I do believe, if family trees are anything to go by, as my good employer is so fond of saying, that we are related, if somewhat distantly. My lady, The Catherine de Bourgh herself, has advised me to take an active interest in my relatives, no matter how distant or estranged they may be. As she said to me once, 'My dear Mr. Baker, you never know when you'll be forced to rely on such relatives as God has given you, even if those relatives be beneath your hopes and horizons,'  
  
"And so, dear Jennifer, I am taking leave of my Lady, however loathe to leave her I am, to come and visit you and your sister in your home. I do hope that you will be ready to welcome me on Thursday, at six o'clock at Logan Airport, and we shall endeavor to not only to placate my dear and fair employer, but also to be true to the ties that hold a family together.  
  
"Yours, in all the dearest designs of Industry, Reverend Stephen Theophilus Baker"  
  
"Wow," I said, finishing the letter. "Just...wow. I never knew anyone had it in them,"  
  
Jen looked at me questioningly. "Have what in them?"  
  
I smiled wryly. "To insult someone so much, and then ask them to waked up at five in the friggin' morning to give them a ride to our house and have them stay here for a week or something in the same breath. Assuming bastard,"  
  
"Lizzy! We haven't even met him yet!"  
  
"Yeah, but he is all the same, just you wait and see,"  
  
Jen turned back to the computer screen. "Catherine de Bourgh...isn't she that really rich woman who owns, like, half of Spain and part of Cancun?"  
  
"Well, whoever the hell she is, he thinks she's the damn earth and sky. I bet you she's a frigid, pompous bitch,"  
  
"Maybe, I won't take you up on that, though. She could be a perfectly respectable person, we never know,"  
  
Right. Yep, Ignominiously Co-dependant Boy thinks she's the queen Sheba or something, and she's a respectable person.  
  
But all I knew was that I really, REALLY didn't like the writer of that e-mail, and I wasn't going to let a disgustingly rich woman's pet priest invade on my life and be a big ol' wrench in the big ol' gears.  
  
What gears, you ask? I've got no idea, they're hypothetical. Suffice to say that there in the hypothetical world there is a big ass hypothetical wrench that could potentially block a big ass hypothetical set of hypothetical gears.  
  
But little did I know that this hypothetical-wrench man would do just that.  
  
A/N: You like? Good good! And if not, HA, because asked for this chapter!  
  
It's that time again! Blackmail (I mean extortion) time! I have now (thank you very much) broken 100 reviews. But I will not post (and I WILL post, I promise) until I get 125 reviews. That's not so hard, is it??????  
  
  
  
No, of course not.  
  
And about the whole "IS THIS REAL????" crap, THIS STORY LINE BELONGS TO JANE AUSTEN. No, the exact things /line/ details of this story never happened. But I DO know people like my characters, and they are the basis for my story's characters and their reactions.  
  
BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. Ennui sinks in as midterms loom up on the horizon (actually it's only an English midterm, and that's a joke). Everyone wish Blazing-moon good luck on her exams. Tough luck, gal.  
  
One (1) more thing, I promise. Could everyone reviewing tell me where they're from? I think it's really cool how many countries this site reaches and has peopled writing from, so if you could just tell me what country you're from, I'd learn how many countries and people I'm reaching. AWESOME! Thanks a bunch!  
  
NOW REVIEW! 


	12. A Pirate's Life For Me

A/N: Holy crap that was fast. Maybe I should make the numbers higher next time... Thanks to y'all who reviewed, and I'm not gonna waste valuable writing space to answer all of you, but just know, somewhere deep down there, that you rule the reviewing world of ruling reviewers.  
  
By the way, if you have any friends...maybe get me some more readers...? More, more I'm still not satisfied.  
  
So here we go  
  
Chapter 11: A Pirate's Life For Me  
  
"And this hall puts me in mind of one of the bathrooms at Rosings Park, Catherine de Bourgh's estate. I say ONE of the bathrooms, because of course, there are many, as you would expect from a personage as exalted as Madame de Bourgh..."  
  
Please someone shoot me.  
  
He had been here for an hour, ONE HOUR, and already I wanted to throttle the little weasel-man into oblivion. Our house was likened to Rosings Park on every degree, but he didn't even have the grace to not mention the size difference. He went in detail over the way it was built, the time it was built, how much it cost to be built, when Catherine de Bourgh had inherited it, how long she had been living at Rosings, when she had married, when she had had her daughter (singular), when her husband had died, what se had just planted in the garden (not her, of course, but her gardeners) and ON AND ON AND ON...  
  
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!  
  
And to make it worse, he seemed to have developed some weird thing for me, and so followed me around like a friggin' lap dog, wile extolling everything about Ms. de Bourgh from her impeccable interior decorating tastes to her little Scotty dog, Hugo St. Regis de Bourgh.  
  
Hugo St. Regis...?  
  
And so there he was, sitting in the big armchair normally reserved for my mother/ second most annoying person (aka Mary), and I was very close to ripping out my hair, drop kicking rodent-boy, and heading for the hills.  
  
"Lizzy, you wanna come with us? We're going to see Denny and the other soldiers," Lydia and Mary came in through the kitchen, Mary prattling on endlessly in the background, and Lydia eyeing Stephen, who was chunnering on in much the same fashion. But at the prospect of my leaving, he stopped immediately, and stood up in a would-be gallant manner and said, "You are going, Ms. Bennet? Then I'll go with you!"  
  
Lydia looked outright disgusted, and I plopped my head back into my hands.  
  
It was going to be a long week.  
  
It was a long, long walk from our house to the houses where the troops where staying, made even longer by the endless, droning prattle dished out by the slimy weasel on my right, who simply HAD to look at my face to gauge my reaction to everything that he said, and so walked with this kind of slinking, crabby, sideways movement. The topic was basically about him, and his triumphs, and on how many times he had eaten at Rosings Park in the last month, and at how wonderful it was to have the powerful patronage and condescension of Lady de Bourgh, and how many times he had fed Hugo St. Regis in the last week that he had been there, and how being a minister meant that he could take care of those below him more than was the normal, accepted amount.  
  
Kill me kill me kill me kill me...  
  
Finally, FINALLY, we arrived at the municipal houses, and the shops across the way.  
  
"Omigodomigodlookthere'sDennythereheisbutlookwho'swithhimhe'sreallyhottoowow nowtherearetwoofthemwhichoneisformeomigodomigodomigod!" Mary was bouncing up and down on her heels.  
  
I looked across the street where Mary had pointed, and gulped. There were two men, standing and talking in front of the "All for a Dollar" store. (It's NOT all for a dollar; some of it is for two, or even three. Cheap bastards, misadvertising everything so that poor college students are forced to spend three dollars on books and coffee mugs...)  
  
But back to the point, one of them (NOT Denny, I think) was incredibly, INCREDIBLY good-looking.  
  
Like, (dare I say) HOT.  
  
Wow.  
  
Ahem, but that didn't bother to me at all. I was celibate after asshole-truckie Jake. I never wanted to have another boyfriend ever again. I never even wanted to be LOOKED at like that ever again. I was a self- named nun, minus the praying, and being named Sister Mary Something or Other, and being Catholic, and wearing the habit and living in a convent...  
  
But other than that, I was such a nun.  
  
But even if I didn't want to be looked at, surely there was no harm in LOOKING...right?  
  
By the time I had come to this steady, rock-hard resolution, Denny and the what's-his-face (his really PRETTY face) had walked over, and were engaged in flirting with my roommates, and exchanging sympathetic looks with all of us when Stephen introduced himself (REALLY ICKILY)  
  
"Denny, who's this?" said Lydia in her best "flirt with me, man meat" voice. Denny took the hint and gallantly introduced us to his friend.  
  
Fred Wickham.  
  
Nice name, if I did say so myself.  
  
Nice guy, too.  
  
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, STUPID ASS! DON'T DO THIS TO YOURSELF, PLEEEEEEEEASE, BECAUSE YOUR LIFE'S FULL OF CRAP AS IT IS!!!! JUST SMILE AND BE POLITE, DON'T FLIRT/FALL IN LOVE WITH/MAKE MAD LOVE IN TE MOONLIGHT WITH HIM!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
Ever had that little voice...? Well, mine's not quite so little, if you follow me.  
  
We were having a good time (or should I say, Lydia and Mary were having a good time with Denny while I was stuck with the sniveling crab and the gorgeous temptation, trying to think of something to say.  
  
Until I spotted You-Know-Who walking down the road.  
  
No, not Voldemort.  
  
But close.  
  
Yes, Will Darcy, that abomination on all human kind, was strolling down the street as if he owned it. I glared, hoping my powerful Laser Beam Vision would send him into some out-of-the-way dimension while I continued to secretly drool over Wickham and desperately want to THROTTLE my third/fourth/fifth cousin.  
  
But Holy Shiznit Batman, my powers were decidedly NOT working that day.  
  
No, he kept on walkin' down that sidewalk, hands in his (really expensive) pockets, and was almost next to us when he stopped short, staring.  
  
No at me, thank God.  
  
But at Wickham.  
  
His eyes were wide for a moment, then they narrowed, and he stared icily at the guy in front of me. Wickham caught his look, and looked surprised, shocked even. But then Wickham smiled and nodded his head in greeting, and turned back to me. Darcy watched us for a moment longer, and for a moment, it seemed like his head was going to explode and he would jump on Wickham right there, beating him to dust with one mighty swing of his arm.  
  
But no explosion and/or implosion happened, and no dust-pounding occurred from mighty arm-swings.  
  
Instead he lifted his head up high, and walked right on past, arms swinging, looking directly ahead.  
  
What the fuck??????????????????  
  
******************** Journal Entry #_______ page #___________  
  
I don't care, I don't care I don't give a damn about the stupid-ass page numbers.  
  
What the HELL was he doing here? Why did he come? Did he know I was here and decided to come and piss me off royally for the rest of the time (God willing, let it be short) that I stay here?  
  
God Damn him! What the hell possessed him to join the bloody ARMY for Christ's sake? So he can look all NOBLE and happy and perfect in front of the girls, no doubt.  
  
Oh Jesus.  
  
Lizzy.  
  
She was there, wasn't she? Talking to him with those idiot roommates of hers? What did she think? Was she fooled by his antics? The play acting that had me fooled into thinking he was like a good brother and friend for the first half of my life?  
  
Oh fuck.  
  
I mean, if she doesn't believe him, that's all well and good, she's even smarter than I thought.  
  
But if she DOES believe him? Just like everyone else believes him when they meet him?  
  
Then, Willie-lad, you're royally screwed. No one else knows what happened, and she wouldn't believe me, even if I told her the truth, every word of it.  
  
Well, there's a happy thought.  
  
Oh you WEAKLING!!!!  
  
Godammit Will, didn't your dad teach you ANYTHING? If the asshole bastard tries to tread on your toes, you tread right back, or should really be shot for cowardice.  
  
And...if he tries to take Lizzy-  
  
But she's not mine. This is stupid, I don't even LIKE her, and here I am getting all weak in the knees at the thought of her liking him.  
  
They should strip you naked and parade you around in the street, just to tell you how STUPID you are, Darcy. Stand firm, face down the enemy.  
  
Tell the truth.  
  
No, FUCK the truth! Truth has nothing to do with this. If HE is going to play false, and if she'll drink it up just like dad and Georgiana used to do, than telling her the truth won't make the slightest bit of difference.  
  
Because she hates me.  
  
And so she should, because I hate her too. I hate her independence and her pride and her constant attempts to misunderstand everything anyone ever said.  
  
Damn....  
  
Better do something for that, Willie-me-lad, because it will only get worse. 


	13. When You Think About Suess

A/N: Hooray for life! I went to Gunstock, and finally I know how to ski! Major achievement points go to Moonchild. Why thank yah, thank ya.  
  
Not a particularly long author's note, considering I've got nothing in particular to say, so let's just skip straight to the next chapter in our fabulously exciting series of events, the marvel of the modern age...  
  
Fly, birdies fly! To  
  
Chapter 12: When You Think About Seuss  
  
My life is one continuous mystery, did you know that? To start with, how in the name of all things holy could I be born into a family with a screechy monkey-faced siren for a mother? Always a good question. Next, how the hell can Jen be so perfect, and I be so flawed, but still can get along and/or are each other's friend and confidante? Next, why aren't there any more cookies left on the platter, and whom do I go to to get it filled back up again?  
  
Biggest question of life: Where are the cookies?  
  
Well, it was either focus on the cookies, or listen to Stephen yatter in his sleazy, monotone voice for ages. What was he saying?  
  
"Oh yes, I do agree, your daughter is the very vision of health and loveliness tonight, my dear Mrs. Kingsley. She puts me a great deal in mind of my dear patron's only daughter, the lovely Isabella," Isabella! THAT was her name. I keep on forgetting for some reason, "who, I must say, is one of the prettiest girls of my acquaintance. Am I engaged to her? My dear lady, surely you must have heard that Isabella and the young Mr. Darcy have been destined for each other since birth? Why yes, though the lady is herself sickly, and has not seen the gentleman in quite a few years. It is, as I took the liberty of commenting to Mrs. De Bourgh herself only a week ago, truly tragic, for she has deprived the poor boy of the boon of being able to look at the prettiest girl in America, in the world, indeed. Quite a pretty way to say it, isn't it?"  
  
Yeah, if you collect them.  
  
"I collect them. You see, my dear madam, it is so gratifying to be able to write down all the compliments I might ever get the chance to use. That way, whenever I feel that a compliment is needed, in any situation, I am prepared to give it and gratify the listener,"  
  
I almost felt bad for Darcy. Being stuck to a woman like that with a crony like that...I'd whip out the sulfuric acid and go crazy on her thirty million, forty-five hundred thousand, three thousand two hundred and sixty- five dollar (and seventy five cent) house. I got the exact number from eavesdropping on this conversation.  
  
Rowan lay slumped in the one available armchair. His eyes were closed and he looked like he was sleeping, but when the last sentence came from my estranged relative's mouth, his eyes snapped open and met with mine.  
  
"What the HELL is this guy on?" he mouthed to me softly as we watched Stephen shmooze with our host. I had been wondering the exact same thing myself. I shrugged and suggested in an undertone, "Crack?"  
  
"Nah, crack doesn't make you snivel like that. I wonder what his parents were like..."  
  
"A gorilla and a bowl of Jell-O?"  
  
"Don't wanna even think about the mental pictures that go along with that, Liz-mastah,"  
  
I plopped myself onto his knee. This was gonna be a LONG night.  
  
What the hell were we doing here, I hear you ask?  
  
This was my mom's best friend's house. Susan Kinsley is the kind of woman who will show up while you're on your deathbed and tell you all the things you least want to think about, as you lie dying. Namely: How many boys you beat up when you were five and still wore diapers; how many times you were rude to your parents; what seeing your body change and your face getting all red and pimply was like and why she liked seeing it; and going over the meaning of life and what, in her opinion got you into heaven and what got you into hell and why you couldn't be in purgatory. Even if you didn't believe in heaven or hell, you get her meaning and get exactly where she thinks you'll be going.  
  
She held an annual party at her house around Valentine's Day (By around, she means two weeks before or six months after, she's not picky). We were expected to go, but my mom somehow always managed to weasel her way out of it. Cheap nazi bastards...  
  
"Why do we even come here Row? I mean, you just KNOW that she's gonna do something to horribly embarrass us in front of the whole party, like every year,"  
  
"I wouldn't worry too much. The whole party's seen you in that bunny costume with the hole in the back, remember? She can't make it much worse than that, right?"  
  
"Shuttup shuttup shuttup shuttup! God don't remind me," I stuck my fingers in my ears and closed my eyes.  
  
"Lizzy?" I heard a voice say through a few inches of finger.  
  
I opened my eyes, and there standing in front of me was HIM. Fred Wickham.  
  
Why do the most embarrassing moments come when you'd rather die than be seen like that by someone important?  
  
The world is cruel.  
  
I got off Rowan's lap really quickly. He looked between us, baffled. I had never acted so weird, even with my other boyfriend(s). Especially not to a guy in uniform.  
  
What the hell was the matter with me?  
  
"Hey," I said, trying to radiate calm and Madonna-like grace while attempting to sponge dry the bitter tears of being-caught-in-unorthodox- position-by-nice-looking-member-of-opposite-sex.  
  
"Hey," he said, apparently perfectly comfortable, damn him. "Having fun?"  
  
I rolled my eyes. "Fun? How can there be fun in a place where visions of mass humiliation play in my head?"  
  
"Such as?" he asked, his eyes crinkling with amusement.  
  
"Suffice to say I never want to see another bunny costume for the rest of my life."  
  
Fred threw back his head and laughed, a big, strong laugh that made some of the people around the room turn and smile. I like that kind of infectious laugh. I like him, too...  
  
Get a grip you moron.  
  
Gee, thank you brain, for ruining a perfectly good cheesy, romantic thought.  
  
I know, I'm talking to my brain inside my own head. I know that's disturbing. On wit the story.  
  
" How long have you been in the army?" I asked, looking at the numerous colorful badges whose meanings I had absolutely no idea of.  
  
"A year and a half. About. Lizzy-" he stopped, and I looked at him expectantly. Maybe this was the part where he declared his insatiable love for me and we get married.  
  
"How long have you know Will Darcy?"  
  
Maybe not. Didn't exactly want to marry a guy I only met yesterday, either. Seems kinda sketchy.  
  
"A few months. Since October, I think," where was this leading?  
  
"Do you like him?" he seemed to search my face anxiously, and I was getting slightly afraid of having a small blemish/pimple/mutant growing on my face.  
  
"No." I scoffed, "No one here does. Arrogant bastard,"  
  
He relaxed and smiled, but now I wanted to know why he'd asked.  
  
Damn my cat-killing curiosity...  
  
"Why do you ask?" (I bet you knew that one was coming.)  
  
"Because we used to be friends," he said simply. I looked at him, horrified. This guy, whose judgment I thought to be good, this man had been friends with the emotional fuckwit we all know as Darcy?  
  
"What happened?" I asked. Lizzy Bennet, going for tonight's top story, next on CNN.  
  
"Well, he and I went to school together. His dad paid for my tuition, I was a friend of the family. And..." he paused delicately, like they do in movies, "and he cheated me out of everything that I wanted." He stopped, and tried to smile.  
  
THAT BASTARD! Why the hell had Darcy treated this guy like he treated everyone else? Hadn't they been friends? I wanted to search him out, run him down with a pack of dogs and imprison him myself, all the time yelling my fierce war cry: "DEATH TO EMOTIONAL FUCKWIT BASTARDS!!! I AM LIZZY, HEAR ME ROAR!!!  
  
But not yet. I needed the full story to add fuel to my proverbial fire.  
  
"What did he do?" I couldn't help it. His pain and his good personality drew me in. I leaned in closer, never taking my eyes off his face.  
  
"I-he... he was the richest student at all of our schools. He was the one that future buildings will named after because he's so damn rich, ya know?"  
  
I nodded.  
  
"Well, he could influence the teachers' decisions and opinions of anyone in the school if he wanted to,"  
  
I gasped. That consarned Nazi! "You mean he told the professors not to like you, or pad them to fail you, and they did it?" This was by far the worst thing I'd ever heard. Well, except maybe for the realization of where babies came from, and what my dad had had to do with my mom to get that "miracle" to happen...namely, touch her, which I had never seen him do. Small wonder, when you look at my mom. Poor bastard.  
  
"Yep. He got me a failing grade in all of my courses but communications. And who REALLY wants to be a communications major? He ruined the rest of my life, my dreams for the future, all that. The only thing I could do was go into the army and try to make something of myself there. They don't care if you're dumb as a bucket in the army, as longs as you can do a million pushups on command ad make your bed with hospital corners. So that's why I'm here, really," he looked straight into my eyes, and I nearly fainted with the flood of wounded emotions that surged up from his blue, sparkly eyes.  
  
Eyes that reminded me suddenly of Speed Racer, or another Japanese cartoon, where the younger and more innocent you want the characters to be, the bigger you make the eyes. This man had HUGE eyes.  
  
I told you, I couldn't help it.  
  
It seemed like the last thing that should be done, but it was, suddenly, the only thing I wanted to do.  
  
I looked at his eyes, and his eyes looked back at mine, and we both moved forward at the same time.  
  
And there I was, Lizzy Geneva Bennet (yeah, I know, Geneva. Shut up.) kissing a guy I'd met only yesterday.  
  
Fred Wickham. 


	14. Pure, Unadulterated Hell

A/N: Oh the humanity! Cliffhangers! Well, dinna worry, duckies, it will turn out well. How will it, you ask?  
  
I don't know, it's a mystery.  
  
Round and round the mulberry bush (oh, the randomness) the monkey chases us to:  
  
Chapter 13: Pure, Unadulterated Hell  
  
Well, as I said, there I was, kissing him.  
  
And it was, to put it lightly, ALL WRONG. I mean, number one, I don't kiss guys I've only met a day ago, no matter how GORGEOUS they are. Number two, a sad, touching story, no matter how much it agrees with my ideas, is NOT a segue to hot, passionate kissing/botched mouth-to-mouth. It just doesn't work like that.  
  
He seemed to be enjoying it, though. At least, he didn't jerk away like I was poison or send in any cops to come and take me in for reckless frenching. He'd even leaned into the kiss. That made it even harder.  
  
Damn the world and its rules.  
  
"Stop!" I pushed him away. "This isn't right,"  
  
He just looked at me, waiting until I finished my half-baked protest.  
  
"Umm, I mean, I just met you, ya know. It's kinda sketchy that we were...kissing...only twenty-four hours after we've met. Plus, I don't think I like you like that."  
  
He smiled wryly and scratched the back of his head with what I was sure was a gorgeous, unadulteratedly perfect finger.  
  
Goddamn...  
  
"You're right. I guess we got caught in the moment. I don't think I like you like that either. But who knows? Maybe it will work out like that sometime." He smiled teasingly at me. I wrinkled my nose. Don't tempt me sunshine. Must keep my maidenly honor and everything.  
  
He got up from where he sat, and I stood too. We looked sheepishly (hee hee, sheepish) at each other for a second, but didn't have time to talk.  
  
Because just then Susan Kingsley's voice boomed (yeah, BOOMED. Literally) over the voices of the party, "Hey Lizzy! Get your skinny butt over here! I've got a favor to ask you!"  
  
Oh God.  
  
"Oh God,"  
  
She was holding a bright pink, neon-orange tiger-striped cat suit that looked like it had been in a child's dress-up chest for just a few decades too long.  
  
"I'm dead," I said, looking up at Fred.  
  
And all he did was smile back.  
  
*************** Page break o'rama.  
  
"My dear cousin, I have just had the prestigious good luck of running into that charming Ms. Bingleton, and she gave me the privilege, not the pleasure, no, the HONOR, of informing you that we are invited to a dance at Netherfield this evening to celebrate the birthday of the prestigious Mr. Darcy. Such a nice young man, as my temperate ladyship had the grace to condescend to tell me just a month ago, and SO well endowed..."  
  
My head snapped around from where I had been staring out the window for the past twenty minutes, not even pretending to be interested.  
  
"Well endowed?"  
  
"Well, yes, he is, after, the wealthiest man on the east coast, after all. It is amazing that the poor boy is an orphan and yet takes good care of his God given gift, and he handles it SO well, might I add,"  
  
I will NOT think about penis jokes, I will NOT think about penis jokes, I will NOT think about...  
  
"And so, as a man of God, you think that God's gifts should be handled with great care and delicacy, do you?"  
  
Oops, I actually said that out loud. Oh well, I couldn't resist.  
  
"Why of COURSE dear cousin! The gifts bestowed upon mankind by His grace should be prized and treasured above all else. They are not the makings of mortal men, to be forged in a moment only to fall flat in the face of something greater and more powerful than they. They are the most valuable of all possessions,"  
  
" I think that sentiment would greatly anger and amuse many people, Rev. Baker," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. WHY do people leave themselves open like this? How could he NOT see the seventh-grade level bathroom humor that could be derived from this conversation?  
  
"Oh please, dear cousin, call me Stephen, after all, we are family, and we have known each other for quite sometime, have we not?"  
  
Total number of days that I had known Stephen: 4  
  
Champion Number of times I actually cared that he was there: 0  
  
"OhmigodStephenisittrueaboutthispartyomigodwehavetogowhatshouldIwearIwanttol ooksexyforDennyowon'thiseyesgopopwhenheseesmewhere'smyshowwhere'smyshoesomeo ne'stakenmyshoeomigodomigod!!!!!!!!"  
  
All that on one breath, too. Not half bad.  
  
I was about to go upstairs when the right Honorable Reverend Stephen Baker- no, I'm sorry, STEPHEN, caught my arm. I was a little too close for comfort, his greasy hair and fish breath right in my face. He gave me the impression of a hippopotamus trying to look like a fox, and it wasn't convincing at all.  
  
"I hope you'll save one dance for your poor friend Stephen, won't you?" he said, in an enticing voice. A pity that the effect he wanted was to entice me to get closer to him when the effect it had on me was the exact opposite.  
  
"We'll see...Stephen,"  
  
He backed away kind of creepily into the shadows, spoiling the look by knocking over a box of Oreo O's and five Spiderman comic books.  
  
I turned back to the stairs, already thinking about Fred.  
  
*************  
  
"Ya know, Liz-mastah, one of these days, I'm gonna buy a car or something," Rowan said, walking next to me on the side walk in his khaki pants and Weezer tee-shirt (his party/everyday/pajama gear)  
  
"Why? Fed up walking everywhere?" I said, looking up from where the toes of my high tops said "Oblahdee oblahdah," in big purple letters.  
  
"And being dragged," he said meaningfully, glaring at me.  
  
"Look, I wasn't the one who told you to drink that cognac, okay? I just introduced you to it, I didn't think you were such an alcohol slut that you'd make out with the bottle on your first date," "Alcohol slut, huh? What about all that GUY you were all over at the Kingsley party? Don't tell me you've known him forever, you loser," he nudged me as I blushed furiously (for the fifth time in my life, I'll have you know).  
  
"Yep, we're old friends you heartless interrogator. Besides, I stopped it a little after it started, it got weird," and could possibly get weirder if he's there, but if he's not there...  
  
Jesus, look at me. In the course of five minutes I turn from commanding, confident, ethereal goddess to sniveling little loser who get most of her nutrients (and brain damage) from her make up and sobs when her boy love interest thing doesn't ask her to dance. Somebody save me from this, please.  
  
"It got weird that fast? Doesn't speak well for posterity, now does it?" he snickered, as if he were the Oh So Funniest Person in the World.  
  
"Rowan, your humor, my rib," I said, sarcastically clutching my side.  
  
"Whose rib?" Kat's voice behind me made me jump. Rowan then related the whole HYSTERICAL episode while I quietly skulked (hee hee, skulked) my way to the ninth ring of the something-worse-than-hell.  
  
We reached there just as my mind was shouting, "Give it up, you loser! One boy shouldn't make this much difference, now should it!!!" in response to my completely out-of-character thought, "I wonder if my hair looks okay?"  
  
Shoot me PLEASE.  
  
Once again, the melodic strains of pumping techno reached my ear as Pronby opened the door for us, and bowed to me.  
  
"Enter into the forbidden gates, everyone," I said, leading them to the drink table that had vodka (ahh, how I love you) and nine little bottles of cognac. There, a little way away from the techno and the preppie dancing couples, I found my good ol' buddy Charlotte, standing alone, like the wonderful wallflower she is.  
  
"Lizzie! Thank God someone is here to talk to! I was just about to run away screaming,"  
  
"Hey, don't steal my material, honey. What's up?" She made a face at all the dancers, and then said, "How's it going with what's-his- face...ummm, your cousin? What's he like?"  
  
I was about to relate my entire sad tale to Charlotte when (speak of the devil) STEPHEN appeared in front of me.  
  
"My dear cousin, I have a small favor to ask," he said, a little to loudly, so that the people around us turned to look. I knew where this was leading, and was dreading it.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Would you do me the honor of dancing with me next song?" He was being a little too gallant, and creeping me out just a little bit. You know, if "just a little bit" was measured in quarts.  
  
"Ummm, sure...I guess," I said, hoping that he would move away from us so I could talk to Charlotte once more. No such luck, unfortunately, because he stood there, his little beady eyes flicking between us, waiting for our conversation to continue. I sent various eye messages to Charlotte, who sent a few in return, and then said meaningfully, "So Lizzie, how is your devil worshipping cult going?"  
  
I could have hugged her, I swear.  
  
"Oh, it's all right," I said nonchalantly, biting back a grin, "But we're having trouble luring more midgets to come to our meetings as sacrifices. We're going to have to move to Visual Arts teachers and guinea pigs,"  
  
"Err...ahem, I say, that's...well, the next song is starting, it's time we went,"  
  
He took me by my hand, lead me to the dace floor, but not before I turned to Charlotte and mouthed the word "HELP!!!" over my shoulder.  
  
This song was a fast one. I'm not exactly the best dancer in the world, but compared to his Eminence in front of me, I was a friggin' expert. If you took a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robot and gave it the ability to bend its hips, it would be better at dancing than Stephen Baker. The sad, unfortunate truth.  
  
The song seemed to last forever, with the Archbishop of creepy distant relatives staring at me like a greasy tiger stares at its orange- haired prey. I envisioned all of the things I would have loved to do to him, and strangely, they all involved rubber duckies and Krazy Glue. Hmmmm...maybe I need to rethink the creativity of my revenge strategies.  
  
Finally, FINALLY, after eons of waiting and paining, of endless seconds stretching on into eternity, the crappy CRAPPY song ended and people clapped and moved off the dance floor. At least there hadn't been any time for talking, that would have creeped me out.  
  
I was getting myself a refreshing glass of water (read: vodka) when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there stood Mary's crush Denny, in his best uniform and looking like a fish. (No, not like a fish out of water, just a fish. I'm serious, that kid's eyes were popping out of his head. Either he had never seen a house like this or he needed his inhaler.)  
  
"Um, you're Lizzie, right?" he asked nervously. I wondered how Mary could have thought of him as charming and sexy. Oh well, different tastes, I guess.  
  
'That's me, duckie, why?" he looked relieved, as if I would have bitten his head off and stuck it on a pole in front of my house for everyone to see if I hadn't been who he thought I was.  
  
"I have a message for you, from Fred Wickham," he looked at me apprehensively, gauging my response to Fred's name.  
  
"Fred Wickham, yes," I said, wondering where Fred was and wanting this conversation to hurry the hell up.  
  
"He told me to tell you that he couldn't come tonight. He had an unexpected case of the flu and he needs a few days to recoup. But I think, I think that he wouldn't have been so against going if this party wasn't in honor of a certain someone," with that, he slunk off into the hallway.  
  
Oh, that's great. Fred was so hurt by emotional fuckwit Darcy that he couldn't even come to the same party as him. What a complete imbecile that smug, arrogant, aristocratic, self-righteous, maniacal bastard with forty billion dollars or whatever was. Couldn't he ruin his own life? Couldn't he-  
  
"Miss Bennet?" I heard THE VOICE behind me. Oh shit.  
  
There it is again, "Miss Bennet?" Mocking, bullying, just generally being DARCY.  
  
"What are you, deaf?"  
  
"No, I can hear you perfectly fine, your Highness. I was hoping that if I ignored you, you'd go away and leave me alone. You're taking up valuable oxygen," I turned to face him, giving him the EVIL EYE.  
  
"Oh, you expect me to give up that easily, do you? Then you really don't know me very well. I came over here to ask you to dance the next song, but since I see you're afraid to dance with this waster of valuable oxygen, I guess I can-"  
  
"I am not afraid, you psychopathic excuse for an aristo! What, does being with someone you hate give you pleasure? Because I don't see why else you would want me to dance with you," I gave him my own rendition of the snotty up-and-down look, and he grinned mirthlessly.  
  
"Call it a whim, Miss Bennet. Or a challenge, of you like. If you do not like to face your fears and prejudice and remain a cowardly bigot, by all means, refuse to dance with me. But I had hoped that your "New Age" look on things would clear your mind of any bias or resistance to challenge you might have had,"  
  
Cheap bastard, why don't you catch me in a smaller trap next time, eh? Maybe one with spikes on the bars and a picture window?  
  
"I would hate to be considered bigoted, Mr. Darcy," I said, fuming.  
  
He grinned again. "Then you accept my challenge?"  
  
"Screw you," I said, but nodded my head. This was going to be one hell of a joy ride.  
  
If I were lucky, he would have fainted dead away, or would have chickened out himself and dropped my hand and jumped through a window, or the song that played next would have been a pumping, one-minute excuse for music that consisted solely of the words "Leave her alone, Leave her alone, you sexist pig, Leave her alone,"  
  
But I'm not a particularly lucky person. Not only did he not chicken out or have an apoplectic fit, but the next song was (ever so conveniently) a crooning love ballad replete with "Ooh, baby, I love-a YOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUU!!!!" and low, dignified synthesized backup music.  
  
Yeah, a slow dance.  
  
A/N: Sorry about the long wait guys, but with the school play and homework and me being totally irresponsible, I couldn't get it uploaded/written/stolen from the person who really writes this story in time.  
  
I know I know, and just when there was a cliffhanger too! I hope you liked it, and just in case you did/didn't, there is this little button down below that says "Submit Review" that would LOVE to be clicked. You know you want to! I'm trying to see if I can get 200 reviews total this time. 


	15. We're All Mad Here

A/N: Heyo everybody. So I decided to post the next chapter a little early. You all love my story, I love my story, and I like writing it. Besides, you get the extra bonus of knowing that you are good and faithful readers/reviewers. So, feel extra warm ad special today, because you get a brand new, one-of-a-kind trip deep into the land of Lizzie.  
  
Curiouser and curiouser:  
  
Chapter 14: We're All Mad Here  
  
Oh God.  
  
OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGodohGodohGodohGodohGod.  
  
Just HAD to say yes, didn't you? Just had to get mad at him and fall for that crap, didn't you? Just HAD to take the bait, didn't we miss-High-and- Mighty-ethereal-goddess-of-vengence? Oh yes, dancing with your creepy cousin figure wasn't enough, now we go leaping into Mr. Fancypants' arms for a taste of REAL nausea.  
  
Oh the fun.  
  
My fingertips barely touched the backs of his shoulders. His hands, however, had made themselves perfectly comfortable on my waist, and he looked, if not totally at ease, a little less like the rabid Bride of Frankenstein that I so winningly portrayed.  
  
His eyes caught mine glaring at him, and he raised an elegant eyebrow.  
  
Dammit! I ALWAYS wanted to learn how to do that, and here he goes, just throwing away random eyebrow shrugs like he's been doing it all of his life.  
  
Well, come to think of it, he probably has.  
  
"Do you always glare hateful looks at your dancing partners or is it just my good luck?"  
  
Grit your teeth, don't let it bug you, just let it slide...  
  
"Oh you're incredibly lucky, Mr. Darcy," I said scathingly, "you're just so lucky it makes me want to strangle you with envy,"  
  
"Har-de-har-har Miss Bennet, I get the feeling my being lucky has nothing to do with your desire to strangle me,"  
  
"Hit the nail on the head right there, dincha ol' scout? Congratulations on your marvelous insight. When I finish dancing with you I'll applaud you, but you'll have to remind me, my mundane peasant mind forgets these things, you know," I continued my glare and watched as, inexplicably, his grin fell to a strange kind of sobriety, like in movies when the beautiful, talented heroine says the one thing that makes her potential lover/ arch enemy go from loving/jeering into serious alter ego. But he hitched up the corners of his mouth with little effort, and said arrogantly enough, "I don't recall ever telling you that you have a mundane peasant mind, Miss Bennet, you'll have to refresh my memory,"  
  
I glared at him, trying also to remember anything that could have been taken for being called mundane-minded. Damn him, he took it way too literally.  
  
"Oh baby, I Love-a YOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUU!!!!!!!" said the marvelously original backup music.  
  
Think think think think think think think think think think think think think think think think think think....... AH HAH!!!  
  
"Oh, sorry, then it must have been Charlie's sister Emma, I can't really tell the difference between you,"  
  
Hold your applause, it was only a half-baked response.  
  
But it got him all right. His eyes flashed and his long, dark lashes closed in as he squinted in angry frustration.  
  
"So, you can't tell the difference between a shallow, self-absorbed priggy girl and me, can you?" He said through gritted teeth, trying to keep his temper.  
  
Ha ha ha ha ha ha, Darcy's getting angry. I LOVE it when it all works out.  
  
"Well apart from the whole gender thing, not really, no, Mr. Darcy," I said, blinking up innocently at him.  
  
"Have you ever realized why so many people antagonize you, Lizzie?" he asked, using my first name for once.  
  
"Because of my miraculous talents of which they're all envious? Because of the way I make friends so easily? Because I'm different? Take your pick, those are just a few,"  
  
Now I was losing my cool, this was definitely not good. Calm down, calm down.  
  
"No, it's because you antagonize other people without even knowing who they are. You base everything on your first impressions and ignore everything else, so that you end up not with friends, really, just people who are able to put up with you for more than five minutes at a time! You can't make a decent judgment about anyone like that, not at all!"  
  
"ME, making quick judgments, MR DARCY??? 'What, that cow? I can't believe that you'd be so stupid! I can't be seen with that trash, are you kidding? She may be your precious Jenny's sister but she looks more like she pet bloodhound!' Does THAT ring any bells, your Highness? Of course not, because WILLIAM DARCY doesn't judge people just by looking at them, he gives them all at least a 'How de do' before he condemns them to the doghouse! Yeah, that's definitely the way I wanna be, JUST like Will Darcy, the best of the best!"  
  
"I Love-a YOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!" came the melodic ring behind us. Darcy was now staring at me like I was something he'd never seen before. I pressed my case before he could recover enough to argue again.  
  
"But what makes you even WORSE, your WORSHIP, is that you presume to tell other people how to live their lives, and if you don't succeed in that, then you try to live their lives for them. At least I don't go in telling everyone that I'm better than they are, now do I? I know I'm not as pretty or as rich or as influential as other people, so I don't try to control them like my mom does. I have my own life to deal with, and I don't need everyone else's around me. You just can't get enough of ruining other people's lives, can you?"  
  
By now, he'd come out of his stupor and was giving me back glare for glare. Good, I'd hate to have an argument with a comatose guy.  
  
But I guess luck holds pretty well, if a little belatedly, because with a final "YOOOOOOOUUUUUUU!!!!!" the song ended and all the happy smiling couples walked off hand in hand.  
  
With the obvious exception of two not-so-every-happy singletons that gave each other one last glare then stalked off their own separate ways.  
  
Gotta love the Post-teen angst.  
  
***************  
  
Two days later, my quasi-good luck got the royal shaft, and I was left with the proverbial spoiled milk of luck.  
  
If that makes sense.  
  
It was early in the morning (aka 1:00 PM on a Saturday) and I was eating my Life. Of all the breakfast cereals in the world, Cinnamon Life has got to me the best. I mean, how can you not love the cinnamon-sugared goodness that's like a much less nasty Cinnamon Toast Crunch with cute little kids on the box? I've taken the time to study this, I know my cereals, and Life is definitely the best of all of them.  
  
But my thoughts of getting a good breakfast for healthy nutritional reasons were put aside when that great defender of manhood and all its God- given glories, Stephen Baker slunk into the room.  
  
Whoopee, hooray.  
  
I barely spared him a glance, concentrating instead on Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd on TV.  
  
"Elizabeth, may I ask you a question?" he said, leaning in.  
  
"Huh? Oh, sure whatever," I mumbled, ready to be invited to a museum or to talk about philosophy or something.  
  
"It would, ah, perhaps be best if you could give me your full attention," he said, and, focused as I was on Elmer Fudd sobbing over a "dead" Bugs Bunny, there was still something in his voice that made me look up.  
  
He had a creepy, slinky sort of expression on his face; one that could be likened to a constipated gargoyle about to give a small child what he thought was a very good present.  
  
"What is it, Stephen?" I asked, not even trying to mask my irritation. Damn him, if he was going to interrupt my Saturday morning cartoons, it better be really frigging important.  
  
"It has occurred to me, my friend, that I have no one to depend upon, no family, no real friends and such. Always excluding my ever fair and honest employer, of course. She is the most kind, trusty, and patronizing mistress anyone could possibly ask for as a matter of fact-"  
  
"Does this have a point at all, or are you going to keep rambling about Mrs. De Bourgh?" I asked angrily. This had better be over before I exploded with exasperation and strangled him with my cereal spoon.  
  
"Forgive me, I digressed. What I am trying to say is that, over the past week I feel we have reached a certain affinity, and that our bond is not just one of simple friendship and companionship, but one that is deep and long-lasting,"  
  
Oh shit. He can't mean- he wouldn't ask- oh shit.  
  
That's gross.  
  
Yeah, that was the first thought that crossed my mind, and who out there in the audience wouldn't agree? I mean seriously folks, would want a deep, profound relationship with a creepy, oily little gargoyle of a man who from the very beginning of the seven days in which you've known him addressed you as "cousin" and talked incessantly about his boss?  
  
WOULD YOU????  
  
"So, I am asking you, my dear cousin Elizabeth,"  
  
SEE????? There it was again!  
  
"I am asking you to marry me,"  
  
Time froze. The clock on the mantel literally stopped ticking in an act of well timed irony. I swear I heard horses whinnying out on our driveway. My bad mood at being interrupted from my cartoons vanished, and in its place was a feeling I hadn't felt in a while. Not even when trying to communicate with my mother, or telling Mary that a guy wouldn't notice the difference between "Sexy Cherry" and "Strawberry Sensation" lipstick; not even when arguing with William Darcy, had I felt an emotion this deep, this swaying. It wasn't hate, all you doubters out there, it was something even worse.  
  
It was disgust, and it was pity.  
  
I mean, this man was a leech, a termite, and an oily version of something resembling the descendant of a duck and a cockroach. He had burst into our lives with the very purpose of using us (refer back to his e-mail if you don't believe me) and had followed me around like a little greasy dog ever since my stunning people skills attracted him to me. He was gross, he was the kind of person that had to be either put up with or terminated with extreme prejudice. I didn't want to look at him or hear him speak or try any kind of communication with him.  
  
And yet that was only because of his weaknesses. I mean, you can stand up to or look at someone who's stronger than you. It's possible to see them and admire/hate them and talk with them and all that. But find someone weaker than you, find someone with no spine and no will ever to get any spine, and you'll find you won't be able to stand talking to them or seeing them anywhere near you. I couldn't bring myself to hate him simply because he was too helpless to hate. He depended so much on other people that that was all he knew how to do, and he was a gold-medal champion at it. He was supremely annoying simply because he wanted the attention it got him, and perhaps if given the attention, he would stop being like that.  
  
But he wouldn't. No he wouldn't at all.  
  
And MARRIAGE???!!!!???!?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?  
  
Just a quick question here, el capitan, how long have you known me? ARE WE NOT IN THE AGE OF REASON????? DO WE NOT DATE AND THEN GET MARRIED OR AM I LIVING IN SOME FANTASY WORLD????? What, are we back in the 1800's where people marry their cousins and trust their luck on a wedding to some weird rich guy? HAVE YOU TOTALLY LOST YOUR MIND????????  
  
Yeah, that's right kids, Lizzie's back.  
  
"Marriage? You want to MARRY me?"  
  
"As I can see, excitement only makes it hard for you to talk. Don't worry, I'll give you a minute to accept my answer officially," He sat back with a little smile on his weasel chin.  
  
"Oh no, Stephen, that's where you're wrong. I won't need a frigging minute. You can have my answer now,"  
  
"REALLY? Oh well the wedding will be on a Friday, I've always loved Fri-"  
  
"There's not gonna BE a wedding you dunderhead! Listen, I've only known you for a week, and maybe you've gotten enough time to taste the forbidden fruit and everything, but I definitely haven't! Second of all, you're my cousin, no matter how distant, and you've certainly broadcasted that fact enough times to get it written on your forehead in neon lights. I don't love you, I don't know you, and I won't marry you!!!"  
  
That left a stunned silence. The clock jolted back to life in a moment of resurrected energy. I looked at him hard, trying to convey the message more that I already had.  
  
He looked shocked for a moment, then his eyes turned inwards, and a small smile crept over his face.  
  
"I've heard, from numerous sources, that a woman almost always says no the first time because she wants to present a challenge to the man who wants her. I will give you a day or so, and then ask you again, and I have no doubt of the answer,"  
  
Okay, if I had been nice at all the first time, I was over and done with that now.  
  
"There won't BE a next time, you stupid idiot! How dare you be so assuming and so God-awfully arrogant to think that I'm playing with you so that you'll ask me again? Give me a day and I'll make sure you're so positive about my feelings that you won't come within a ten mile radius of Boston ever again, you hear me? I don't want to marry you, and I never will, and that is my final answer! Don't ask me again, because I would never even consider it, not to a little person-using worm like you! Find yourself someone who buys into your bullshit and let me get on with my life Stephen Baker free! Got it, sunshine?"  
  
"Of course, my dear Lizzie, of course. Just sit down and watch your show, and then think for a little while. I'll just be in the kitchen making myself breakfast. You tell me when you're ready to talk about this like an adult," he gave me a condescending shoulder pat.  
  
Damn him...  
  
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" I screamed, and I raced to the door, and opened it, ready to run outside and walk off my anger.  
  
But as I hurled myself out of the house, I also hurled myself into someone's arms.  
  
Guess who?  
  
Mr. Darcy 


	16. The Three Musketeers

A/N: Heyo! I don't really have anything to say right here, but have LOADS of fun reading this next chapter even if this is another small leap away from the plot of the actual story by Jane Austen. I just gotta have my fun sometimes.  
  
Tralalalala skip the rope to,  
  
Chapter 15: The Three Musketeers  
  
"Oof," was my brilliant response.  
  
Well, I mean what did you expect? I had hurled myself out of the house so fast it's amazing that I didn't knock the guy over.  
  
"What the-" he said, grabbing my shoulders and setting me back on my feet. It seemed he was just as unprepared as I was, but it didn't change the fact that he was, yet again, near me at the exact moment when I DIDN'T want him there.  
  
This was NOT going to be a good day.  
  
"Elizabeth? Where are you going, my little cream puff?"  
  
CREAM PUFF???  
  
That did it.  
  
"I swear to God, Stephen, you come one step near me and I'll rip out your testicles as a prelude to pulling a restraining order on your oily pompous ass," I turned, facing the doorway. If he was gonna keep this crap up, he would do it on someone else's goddamn time, not mine.  
  
"But you have not fully considered my proposal, my dear..."  
  
"*Proposal*? What the hell?" Darcy beside me shot a glance between the weasel junkie and me. For a moment, I was gratified to see he was just as disgusted as I was.  
  
"Why Mr. Darcy! What a surprise it is to see you! I had not expected- could not have hoped-would never have dreamed-. Forgive me, I have not introduced my self," He came out of the shadowy doorway, the afternoon sun glistening off his black bowl-cut hat hair. "My name is Rev. Stephen Baker, I am a minister under the employ of Mrs. Catherine de Bourgh." Darcy shot him a glance of intense dislike and suspicion, but it must not have registered, because Stephen kept yammering, "You'll be happy to find that your godmother is quite well, as is her fair daughter, you remember HER of course, and I must say that you look very well today, even though I have been told that you have not visited Mrs. De Bourgh in over a year, and how ANYONE who has met my fair patroness can look well when they have not seen her in that long is beyond me,"  
  
Darcy and I exchanged a look.  
  
"Yes, well, Baker, I hope I wasn't interrupting anything vitally important to either of you," Darcy drawled.  
  
"Not at all, nothing incredibly important happening here, right Stephen?" I asked, glaring daggers at Stephen, who flopped his mouth up and down like a fish for a few moments.  
  
"Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm going for a walk," I turned around to go down the stairs, suddenly very conscious of the fact that I was in my pajamas.  
  
"Wait right there, my dear Elizabeth, I have a question to ask you, and Mr. Darcy here will be my witness, right Mr. Darcy?"  
  
Oh GOD no, not again. Not in front of -  
  
"My dear Elizabeth-"  
  
"My name is LIZZIE, you dolt! And I told you before, and I will tell you again, NO!!!! Leave me alone; I never want to see you again! Just GET OUT of my house, you got it???"  
  
Well, that would have been a good way to end it all, if I had actually been IN my house instead of on the walkway. But, as I told you, whatever luck I had ever had had just gotten the royal shaft.  
  
"Mr. Darcy, you must aid me on this!" Stephen appealed to the man on his right anxiously.  
  
My GOD what was so hard to get? Why could he not understand? Was he really that freakin' dumb?  
  
"Has she given you a good reason, Baker?" asked Darcy, giving me that infuriating eyebrow raise maneuver.  
  
GREAT, just what I need, Darcy getting his grubby little demon claws on the situation. What was next, Emma and Sarah taping it from behind the bushes and then selling it to the public news?  
  
Next, we go to a rather stunning scene in the outskirts of Boston where a young girl refused a marriage proposal from this handsome gentleman...  
  
Brilliant news coverage, non?  
  
"Why, no Mr. Darcy, not at all, all she continues to say is that she doesn't love me, but what kind of reason is THAT?" he said, smiling at me patronizingly.  
  
Why I oughta...  
  
But strangely enough, it was Darcy who rescued me.  
  
"I would think, Baker, that you would consider it to be the best reason there can be," he said coolly, his look of intense dislike magnifying on his face. Well, he had SOME good taste in the people he hates, I must say.  
  
"B-but, why Mr. Darcy, surely you can't mean- you wouldn't suggest- I mean, sir, what girl truthfully would not want a man like me?" He grinned, trying to strike a dashing pose.  
  
Darcy and I exchanged another glance.  
  
"You actually want me to answer that?" I asked.  
  
There was a moment of silence, wherein I think Stephen just might have gotten the message, because his perpetual pompous expression fell, and he looked about as crushed emotionally as a ferret can.  
  
"Ah, I see. Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy will surely make my case to you again, and I hope that when he does, you will take the time to consider it properly. Until then, I am going inside. Good day,"  
  
Jesus, this guy never quits even when he's been hit by the emotional steamroller!  
  
The door closed, leaving me, the divine goddess of luck and good, wholesome family-fun situations in my pajamas on the walkway, staring at Darcy, the demon barber of Fleet Street, who was standing ever-so nonchalantly on my porch.  
  
"What are YOU doing here, might I ask?" I said, crossing my arms.  
  
"What, didn't you hear? I'm supposed to 'make Baker's case' to you again,"  
  
"I'm serious, Darcy,"  
  
"That's a change, Bennet,"  
  
I glared at him.  
  
"Fine, I'll tell you the truth. I came-" he paused, and almost looked like his tongue was trying to force the words out of his mouth, " -to apologize to you about the other night,"  
  
Well, that was unexpected.  
  
"I mean, perhaps you have serious bad people judgment and everything, and perhaps you can be a bit shallow when it comes to your male friends, but you-"  
  
"You know, maybe you just should have stuck with 'I'm sorry'. Maybe you haven't noticed, but when you apologize about something, you don't insult the person you're apologizing to." I glared at him for a moment, suddenly wanting very much NOT to be there. Well, if I wanted that, then there was only one thing to do, I guess.  
  
"Apology accepted, Darcy,"  
  
Jeez, why did he have to become human for those five minutes? Couldn't he just have continued being arrogant and pathetically self- centered so I could keep hating him unshakingly?  
  
But those damn five minutes made me say something I never thought I'd say.  
  
"To make it up to me, you could give me a ride to Medford, if you wouldn't mind,"  
  
He looked at me a little oddly (not that I blame him, I WAS wearing a My Little Pony t-shirt) but only nodded, saying, "What's in Medford?"  
  
"My dad,"  
  
******************  
  
For all of you who don't know Medford, let me tell you a little about it: there are strip malls, more strip malls, office buildings, pizza parlors, strip malls, and apartment high rises.  
  
Did I mention the strip malls?  
  
The apartment high rise we were headed to (unfortunately, my dad does NOT live in a strip mall) looked like a gigantic toddler had build it with as many of those big Lego's as possible, straight up to the sky.  
  
But it wasn't that colorful.  
  
A fact I was very conscious of, as we got nearer and nearer to the parking lot in Darcy's blue Mini-Cooper. So I focused my attention on the nodding dog dashboard ornament instead. It stared straight back at me with those empty eyes, just nodding and nodding and nodding and nodding and nodding...  
  
"Lizzie!"  
  
"Huh?" I mumbled, jerking out of my reverie. Darcy was looking at me weirdly, and I realized that he had the car parked and was about to get out.  
  
"Oh, right!" Crap on a carp (heehee, letter play) I'd lost my focus.  
  
All right, center, Lizzie, center...  
  
As I climbed (fell) out of his (gorgeous/cool) car, I looked up to where my dad's apartment was. How the hell do you know where a person who lives in an identical symmetrical apartment lives just by sight, you may ask. My dad's was easy to spot. When the building told him that he wasn't allowed to change the outside balcony wall with paint or anything even semi- permanent, my dad bought at least twenty boxes of sidewalk chalk and set to his wall. The ending result was (at least in my mind) a work of artistic genius. He made a mural of the skyline of Boston that he could see out his window, and made the public housing officials really really mad (at him and at themselves) in one go.  
  
My mom hadn't thought so, though. But she didn't really count as she'd been playing bingo in Cambridge for the past year and a half straight.  
  
Darcy looked up at what I was looking at, and said dryly, "Festive,"  
  
That was all. Wait a moment...  
  
"You're coming with me Darcy?" Please no, please no...  
  
"What did you think Bennet, that I'd miss this opportunity to meet your dad after you said we were even and all?"  
  
"EVEN, as in not friends, not enemies. DEFINITELY not take-over-to-your- dad's-house-in-your-pajamas material,"  
  
This could be very bad.  
  
"Correction, Bennet, YOU are in your pajamas, and it's only your fault that you are. You could have gone back inside and gotten changed before coming, you know,"  
  
"With creepy weasel psycho boy in there? Fat chance, honeybunch," I glared at him, and he laughed softly.  
  
Dammit, why did he have a nice laugh? Couldn't he have squawked or something like that? This was getting worse and worse...  
  
"So what you're saying then, is that you were afraid of seeing him again and having him ask you again and all that, right?"  
  
"NO, what I'm saying is that I didn't exactly want to hear another litany about how my judgment is faulty and his is the right way and how if I ask anyone else they'll tell me the same. He's pathetic, and he's trying to make me believe that I'M the one who should be blamed for this whole pile of shit because I didn't fall in love with him/stalk him like he did with me,"  
  
I pressed the button with my dad's name next to it. And waited. And waited.  
  
"So then, you're afraid that you're the one responsible for everything that happened, then, or afraid of feeling responsible, even if you aren't.  
  
And waited.  
  
Dad, hurry up.  
  
"What is the point of all this psychological speculation? Are you trying to delve into the hidden darkness of my pathetic mortal brain? Cause I'm not in the mood Darcy,"  
  
I squinted up at him. Like most people in this world, he was taller than me, and his shoulders were so wide that they blocked out the sun. He was wearing a long black coat that looked pretty damn cool, I'm sorry to say. He looked down on me, his hands in his coat pockets.  
  
"Lizzie, is that you?" came a tinny, crackling version of my dad's voice from the speaker.  
  
"Hey old man, think you could let me in?"  
  
"Oh Jesus, what now?" he said, but rang the buzzer. We walked in, me taking the stairs two at a time to keep up with Darcy, damn him and his long legs.  
  
My dad's box in the wall was on the fifth floor, and all the little old ladies in the building always thought it would be cute or something to sit on the stairs or on the tiny landings in over-sized rocking chairs and knit, watching everybody who went up.  
  
As we climbed, I heard one whisper to the other, "Dorothea, look at that! I've never seen any decent girl in my day wear such atrocious pajamas!"  
  
Hey! They weren't atrocious, ya crotchety old hag! Just polka-dotted red and green bottoms and an over-large My Little Pony t-shirt.  
  
Go back to knitting your precious seat cushions and leave us emotionally scarred characters in peace!  
  
My dad had thrown the door open by the time we got there, and was back to the big canvas in the middle of the room, focusing in on the smallest detail in the bottom left-hand corner. I closed the door behind me.  
  
"You know, da, you shouldn't keep the door open like that. What if someone had run in or something? You could have been mugged, ya know,"  
  
Yeah, that's right, I called him "da," and that's not a typo. You'll understand why in a second.  
  
"Lizzie dahrlin', ye can't keep worrying about me. If there had been a burglar, I'd bet my violin to yer pianna that the old ladies on the stairs would've beaten the crap out of 'im before he even got up here,"  
  
Yup, he's Irish. VERY Irish. He stood only two inches taller than me (a whopping 5'3") and wore cabby hats in rainy weather. He kept a jug of whiskey in his liquor closet and a cross above his bed and always blessed every building he walked into. He was belligerent, had a short temper, was impatient and loved beans on toast.  
  
And he was staring at Darcy with curious, slightly amused eyes.  
  
"And who, might I ask, is this gentleman here?"  
  
"Uh - he's um..." How the hell do I explain that he's my arch nemesis who happened to have a car?  
  
"I'm Will, Will Darcy, Mr. Bennet," he said. His tone surprised me. Was he being RESPECTFUL of my father? A man who lived in the slightly more waterproof version of a cardboard box?  
  
"Oh, I see, a friend of yours, eh girl?" he looked at me, enjoying the situation.  
  
Sadistic old man...  
  
"Not really da. I needed a ride over here, and Darcy offered to give me one,"  
  
A suspicious look of understanding crossed into my dad's eyes.  
  
"Oh I see. Well, sit yourself down, Darcy, and try some of my best whiskey. I've kept it up for such occasions like this,"  
  
"Such occasions as what, Mr. Bennet?" Darcy asked, smiling a little.  
  
He better freaking not...  
  
"Well, it's not every day that a daughter brings home to her old dad a man she truly likes, now is it, my boy?"  
  
A/N: Hehee, you like? I knew it! I realized at about chapter 5 that I had totally forgotten about Lizzie's dad, and that made me sad because he was (apart from Lizzie) one of my favorite characters. So I had to write him in. What do you think? I hope you like it enough to tell a friend about, and then torture that friend into reviewing, what about you? Heh, no need for that, but I love reviews as much (if not more) than the next crazy co- dependant author, so if you could help me out...danka! 


	17. Journey to the Tenth Ring

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry about the delay (although this is pretty good knowing me). It's SUMMER!!!!!!YAY!!!!!!!!! And just to let you know, in case this is special to anyone else, I am now officially 15. Boo yah baby! I finished Harry Potter in two days, I've gotten no sleep (for some reason, I'm now an official insomniac) and I am SO mad at Cartoon Network for taking G Gundam and Rurouni Kenshin off their Toonami line-up. You have NO idea how pissed I am. (Well, maybe some of you do). So, I think I'm pretty much on a roll right now, so read on and have fun!  
  
It's a bird! It's a plane! No, It's chapter 16!!!!  
  
Chapter 16: Journey to the Tenth Ring  
  
So, in case you weren't paying attention (and all of you were, right?) I'm gonna re-cap what's going on.  
  
One: I am at my father's hole-in-the-wall with the Instrument of Satan.  
  
Two: My father, the Lucky Charms leprechaun himself, has for some reason decided to tell my worst enemy that I like him.  
  
Three: My homicidal tendencies are emerging.  
  
"Da," I hissed, glaring at my father. He stood there with a cheerfully, sinfully innocent smile on his face.  
  
"Cawegosideforminute?"  
  
"Sorry love, you'll just have to speak louder. Hearin' not what it was," he trailed off happily. Damn him...his hearing was never what it was.  
  
"I said, old man, can we go outside for a minute, there's a small matter I'd like to discuss with you,"  
  
"Now, darlin', what can you have to say in front of me that you can't say in front of your good friend Willie here?" he clapped Darcy on the shoulder, looking for all the world like a humorous, noble hero from a movie.  
  
"You stupid geezer, move your lazy Irish butt out that door right now because, damn it, I wanna give a friggin' piece of mind, okay? And besides, I wouldn't subject anyone in the world to our family conversations, you corrupting gnome,"  
  
His blue eyes locked with mine for a second, and then he grinned. "Didn't get that tongue from your mother, Lizzie. Must be my genes, I'm afraid,"  
  
"Yup, sure, whatever, now can we GO?"  
  
Still smiling, he opened the door and held it as we walked out and went down the hall.  
  
"Da, I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but stop it NOW!" I hissed once we were out. The little old ladies on the landing (heehee, alliteration) peered around the railing at us curiously. I glared at them, and they went back to knitting, tutt-tutting about the lack of respect in young 'uns now-a-days.  
  
"Lizzie girl, why are you bein' so cold-hearted to the boy? He's a nice fella. Or perhaps you're just embarrassed that it's true but won't admit to it. Love, you have to understand that whatever little thing he's done doesn't give you cause for all-out, generation transcending feud between families. You've got my temper and your mam's grudge-holding talents, so just overcome the obstacles and get over it,"  
  
"Or perhaps I just have my own temper and my own grudge-holding ability. Look, I came here to get advice and maybe a little bit of sympathy, but I did NOT want advice about DARCY for God's sake!"  
  
"Tutt-tutt," said the old ladies.  
  
"Alright, I understand. But you have to understand that he's not as bad as you seem to think he is and if you'd just take the time to-"  
  
"Who's the one jumping to conclusions here boyo? You meet him and then five minutes later it's all: 'Well, me laddo, it's not ev'ry day yer dawter brings home a man she likes,' Yes, excellent judging skills, there killer,"  
  
"Now you listen to me. You've got a way with words that's gonna get you in trouble one of these days, and I'm not gonna be there to get you out of it. That boy is better than you understand, and if he's done somethin' in the past ye have to let it go. No use bearin' a grudge against someone for somethin' that really doesn't matter in the first place. And really, what does it matter what one person said about another when they're put on the spot? Nothin', that's what. So shut up for five minutes and let that dome o' yours come us with a few good reasons to hate him, and then come back to me and tell me ye don't like him,"  
  
I stood there, speechless for a few seconds, with the ladies clicking and tutting behind me.  
  
"Now, ye said ye came here for advice. What kind o' advice d'ye need, love?"  
  
************ Journal Entry # 208 Page # 345  
  
As they came walking back in, Mr. Bennet laughed so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks. Lizzie looked indignant as she said:  
  
"Alright old man, tell me how any of that is funny, and I'll buy you a drink,"  
  
"Hahaa, oh Lizzie-love, that tongue o' yours has its uses I must say. What did ye say to him again? 'Rip out your testicles as a prelude to taking out a restraining order?' That's pretty good, do ye mind if I borrow that?"  
  
"It's yours, now what the hell do I DO?" She said, rolling her eyes and trying to get her fathers attention back on track.  
  
"Do? I think there's really only one thing ye can do. Refuse him, keep away from him, get him outta the house, and if he asks ye again, well," he smiled wickedly, "a Bennet always keeps her promises right?"  
  
Lizzie smiled back, but still looked a little unsure. When had I ever seen her like this?  
  
Well, never.  
  
But why was she suddenly being so vulnerable just because Baker...well...proposed, in his way? I mean, she was fine with contempt, she stayed firm against all the crap I threw at her, but why was she crumbling now?  
  
Come on, old man, help her.  
  
"How 'bout this, if you even think about accepting or anything like that purely out of pity or uncertainty, I'll disown you and give all my chalk and whiskey to Jen or Rowan. You don't need to worry about him, he'll be fine I suspect. This has probably happened a dozen times before, and if you don't want him askin' your next door neighbor's dog to marry him, I'd run home quick,"  
  
That brought a genuine smile to her face, and for a moment, they looked so connected that I felt almost jealous. Not only how close they were to each other, but how she had someone like this man to talk to, good advice from a father...  
  
Damn it Will, you got over that years ago...  
  
Let it go, let it go.  
  
**********  
  
My seat belt was not in use, and I was violating an important, upstanding Massachusetts law, even though I was over the age limit thingy.  
  
What the hell, I'm still five in my mind.  
  
But I really didn't care. I was gazing as the lovely view of Cambridge rolled past my window.  
  
Crap.  
  
Just...crap.  
  
What the hell was I doing? I was spazzing over something that should have been so freakin' easy! He asks, you say no, that's the end of it. No more questions, no more doubts, no more worries.  
  
Had I seriously been considering saying yes on the basis of pity?  
  
Hell no, sunshine, not on my watch.  
  
And what the hell was with Da saying all that crap about Darcy, who at the moment was watching his Underdog bobblehead bob up and down on his dashboard.  
  
Underdog...?  
  
"Alright, I give up. Where are you really from?" I asked.  
  
"Was that question based on anything or do you enjoy confusing the people with your4 complicated random thought patterns?"  
  
"Well, both. When you talked to my dad you sounded different from when you talk to me, and, here's a festive thought, it might have been because you're not from America at all,"  
  
"Or it might have been that he doesn't treat me like scum under his shoe,"  
  
"Or that he doesn't know your past history of insulting his daughter with luke-warm zingers,"  
  
"Or it could have been because I'm from Scotland,"  
  
"Or it could have been... what?"  
  
Smooth sailin', sparky.  
  
"I'm...from...Scotland,"  
  
"Say it any slower than that and I'll kill you,"  
  
"I had the feeling you'd kill me anyway,"  
  
"Let me hear your voice,"  
  
"Do re mi fa so la ti do,"  
  
"Ha ha. No, seriously, I want to hear your real accent,"  
  
"Why yes, Your Majesty, would you like fries with your order?"  
  
"That was SO original!"  
  
Evil look on both sides.  
  
"Fine. Could you please talk in your real...Scottish accent,"  
  
"Maybe some other time,"  
  
"WHAT? You make me take all that time and ask you politely and you're not even gonna do that for me? Why not?"  
  
"Because if you want to save your neighbor's dog, then you'd better get out quick,"  
  
"What the-?"  
  
Indeed. We were back in the driveway to my house, and to my surprise, Rowan, Kat and Jen were all standing in the yard, looking anxious.  
  
Anxious was not good.  
  
"Do I want to know?"  
  
"I have a funny feeling you're going to find out anyway,"  
  
'So it seems,"  
  
I got out of the car, and Darcy followed.  
  
I watched as my chums took in my pajamas, Darcy, Darcy's car, and the Bobblehead. But their expressions never changed.  
  
Okeedokee.  
  
Artichokee.  
  
This was decidedly not a good sign.  
  
"Okay then, who died?" I asked, hoping vainly that no one had so they wouldn't do that cliché flinching motion that I can't stand when someone gets things right without meaning to.  
  
"Well, no one, but we have something to tell you," Rowan started.  
  
"Termites back?"  
  
"No, this is worse,"  
  
Silence. That icky, creepy kind of silence while they all stand around mentally telling each other to talk first.  
  
Lots of shifty eyes.  
  
"What happened?" said Darcy.  
  
Thank you, el capitan. Moving forward, always forward.  
  
Jen said "Well, it happened like this-" and Rowan said, "What we mean to say is that when you left," and Kat said "Well it goes something like this," and Rowan said, "Stephen was all crazy," and Jen said, "We didn't know something like this would happen," and Rowan said, "He was packin' up his stuff and yelling things," and Kat said, "we thought he was going to spontaneously combust!" and Jen said, 'Charlotte came over to talk to you," and Rowan said, " But you weren't there so we," and Kat said, "We sat her in the kitchen and we talked to her ya know?" and then Jen said, "and Stephen came in and he was still pissed but they started talking and she comforted him and everything," and Kat said, "we were all amazed cause we thought she hated him,' and Rowan said "Yeah but they talked for like three hours and then they," and Jen said, "Then he-" and Kat said, "Then she-" and they stopped.  
  
"WHAT?????" said Darcy and I in unison. (Oooh, unison)  
  
"Well, Liz, Stephen asked her to marry him," said Rowan.  
  
"And Charlotte said yes," said Jen.  
  
A/N: How you like? Cool! Okay, I just realized something vitally important (or not), so here goes: I have been writing this story for over a year.  
  
And yet I only have 16 chapters. Pathetic.  
  
Oh well. Another thing: you'd think that this would be a story with 15 chapters and a prologue, right? But apparently, it actually has 16 chapters. Don't worry, if you noticed this, you're not wrong/crazy/numerically challenged. (Well, maybe you are but you also seem to be crazily observant) I screwed up on the chapter numbering a while ago, so it's gonna stay like that until I finish this story sometime in the next century or there abouts.  
  
And yet again, tell a friend about my glorious story, have a Never Better party, bind and gag people to chairs and force them to read this story, whatever it takes. New reviews make me smile a lot, and smiling a lot makes me write a lot, so review! (Shut UP Natty, I am NOT greedy!!!!)  
  
Special shout out to my buddy Mouse who originally didn't like this story but gave it a second try, it's people like you that solve the world's biggest problems.  
  
Cheers! (Oh, and by the way... REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!) 


	18. A Hard Day's Night

A/N: Hello everybody! I see y'all liked/liked to hate my chapter, considering the evil EVIL thing that had to happen in it. Just to let you know, I hated writing that part, but since it triggers what happens with the rest of the story, it had to be in there. Sorry guys, it hurt me too.  
  
Umm, I know this should be one o' those chapters where I reply to all your reviews and stuff, but I really don't feel like it. Not to be snotty/snobby/snooty (take your pick) or anything, because you guys are the reason I'm still writing this story, and you've helped a lot with all your suggestions and junk, but I'm really lazy and not into taking up valuable type space with replies to reviews that only one person with understand/ be moved by/be offended (hopefully not, but life's full of little surprises). So I won't. Sorry if you were terribly hurt, but no, I won't.  
  
Oh, and another thing: yet again I've changed the spelling of Lizzy's name. Am I dumb or what? It's been done before, and me being me, I don't remember which one is the right one. I'm gonna try and keep it to L-I-Z-Z-Y for now, and when I do my final touch-ups @ the end of the story, I'll change all the L-I-Z-Z-I-E to the right way. For now, bear with my stupidity, it's summer, and I have a show. Cheers!  
  
So, after an unusually long author's note (I promise it won't happen again), we continue with our story.  
  
Hope you like it!!!  
  
Make a wish for:  
  
Chapter 17: A Hard Day's Night  
  
"Charlotte, What the hell were you thinking?"  
  
"Lizzy-"  
  
"I mean, the guy just asked me this morning, number one, and number two, has the fact that he's the biggest idiot-scumbag in the world escaped your notice? Why did you do it?"  
  
"Lizzy, will you-"  
  
"What did he do that you like him for? He's disgusting, and rude, and assuming, and you can't possibly love him, because you know what he is and- "  
  
"Elizabeth Bennet, will you sit your ass down and listen to me please!?"  
  
I sat down fast on the sofa, looking at her hard. She was still the same Charlotte I knew, so where had the whole ting with Stephen come from?  
  
"Did you think that Stephen couldn't marry anyone just because he couldn't get you? Were you that shocked that I would get a guy like him? Did you think I wasn't good enough, or that he wasn't?"  
  
"Him, you idiot. You could do better, you know that," I looked at her pleadingly. This couldn't be real, it just couldn't be.  
  
"Can I? I told you before Lizzy, I don't believe in love. I don't think it really exists. I could do a lot worse than Stephen too, you know, he's not that bad. Plus, he has enough money and land that I don't have to worry about how I'm going to live. It's all very simple, really. I'm going to marry him, and I'll do it no matter what you say, but I'd like to think that you'll at least be a little happy for me,"  
  
Now she raised her eyes to look at me, and I swallowed hard. This was gonna give me an ulcer someday, I just knew it.  
  
Stupid Stephen.  
  
Hehee, alliteration.  
  
"I won't say I agree with it, or that I think it's the right thing to do Charlotte. Lying is never one of my strong points. But if it's what you really want, then I won't try to tell you any differently. Congratulations, Charlotte. I hope I get an invitation,"  
  
I hugged her, then stood up and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me.  
  
This was definitely shaping up to be a fun day.  
  
********** "This is the grossest thing ever, Jen! How could she do this? She knows what she's doing, she knows what she's getting into! It's so disgusting I can barely talk about it!"  
  
"You seem to be doing a good job, then, Lizzy,"  
  
"But he's such an idiot, and she knows that! How can she when she doesn't even love him? When she barely even likes him?"  
  
'You know, there are different reasons people have for getting married. Some for love, some for money, some because they think they'll never get another chance, some just to have kids. What you have to understand is that not everyone is the same,"  
  
"But I would never get married or anything like that if I didn't love the guy! Why should that not be the only reason to get married!"  
  
'Well, neither would I, but not everyone is like us. So please, just shut up about it around Charlotte for right now. She needs your support right now, so suck it up and deal, okay?"  
  
I blinked. I had never heard Jen speak like that anyone, not even to gross ex-boyfriend Rick, not to mention me.  
  
"Nice Jen, you're learning," I winked at her as I opened our mailbox and grabbed the random mix of bills, junk mail, bills, postcards (from my grandmother, the bingo-playing young wife #1) bills, and letters. I turned over the small scented envelope, and saw Jen's name written in scrolly, girly-girly handwriting.  
  
"Here ya go, some snail mail," Jen shook her head at me, and went to sit down on our porch steps. I sat next to her and tried to look over her shoulder, but was discouraged by an evil look. So I amused myself by watching Mr. Kelly, the man who lived across the street, wrestle with his cocker spaniel Fanniel the Conqueror and his extra-large dark green bathrobe at the same time.  
  
Ah...America.  
  
"Oh my God," Jen whispered next to me. She went pale and tears welled up in her eyes.  
  
Now, whatever you may think about Jen, she never EVER cries unless she has a damn good reason, so I very considerately grabbed the letter from her white, trembling fingers and scanned it myself.  
  
Jen Darling,  
  
Yeah, it's Emma. I'm terribly sorry that we couldn't say good-bye 2 u in person, but there was SO much packing to do, and so many other people to say good-bye to here that we totally had no time for u. Sorry hon.  
  
What I wrote to tell u is that we're (Charlie, Sarah, Bruno and Will) all going to New York City. On business, u kno, but there'll be SO much more than that, like parties and whatnot. Charlie thought that we could get it all done in like, a couple weeks, but I don't really think that's gonna happen. So w/e hon, we're staying in NY 4 awhile.  
  
C ya!  
Emma.  
  
If that wasn't enough to completely churn the stomach, all of her lowercase I's were dotted with little hearts.  
  
Gag me, please.  
  
I looked over at Jen. She was staring off into space, her finger nails carefully ripping the envelope into teeny-tiny pieces.  
  
"Buck up, Jen. He'll be back, I swear," I nudged her a little.  
  
She sat up and smiled a little, but she was still a wee bit out of it.  
  
Stupid Emma. One of these days, I was gonna teach her a damn good lesson, the assuming, using, idiotic, pathetic, catatonic, superficial, game-playing bitch.  
  
Just you wait, here comes Super Lizzy! Bow down before my awesome power!  
  
Had business in New York my ass! Talked him into going so that they could get him away from Jen is more like it.  
  
Not at ALL transparent.  
  
Of course not.  
  
"Emma just wrote it like that to be bitchy. She knew what it would do to you, and she wrote it anyway. If I'd had half the chance-"  
  
"Lizzy, I'm sure she didn't do it to be mean. If she says they won't be coming back for awhile, then I have to take her word for it. We have no proof that she wants to hurt us, you know,"  
  
"Oh God, it's so obvious that she hates us! Can't you see?" I winced, then changed my tone. "If they're not back in about two weeks, I'll give you my entire rubber ducky collection, I promise," I nudged her again, and she smiled a little wider.  
  
I couldn't have guessed how wrong I'd be. And also that my entire ducky collection couldn't possibly compensate for Charlie.  
  
A/N: I know, another half-baked cliffhanger. But what can you do?  
  
Okay: BIG PROBLEM!!! Fanfiction is giving everyone an unique penname, which means, by the look of it, that I am now Moonchild5 (haha, beware the awesome literary power of Moonchild5!!!)  
  
Now, my big problem is I'm not good with creative/memorable/good names, (I mean, "Moonchild"?? Honestly...) so here's where all you creative readers come in. I'm taking a poll about what new penname I should choose, and I'll pick my favorite and announce it with my next chapter (which will be soon, we need to figure this crap out).  
  
So there you have it. Sorry the chapter is short, but the next one will be longer, I promise, with more romantic tension! (Woohoo, romantic tension!)  
  
Cheerio (and REVIEW FOR GOD'S SAKE!!!!!!!!!) ! 


	19. The Owl and the Pussycat Went to Sea

A/N: I am SO sorry for the delay everybody. It's a long story involving many computers and disk drives and disks that don't work, and the result is I have to retype this entire chapter (all eight or so pages of it) onto a computer that actually has functioning Internet. Okay, breathe in........breathe out. I've had this chapter written for a while, but I couldn't post it, so this is my last resort. But it's up, so I'll stop bitching and let you read. Thank you all for not flaming me while this was going on. Last March of the Ents, you fool of a Took, to Chapter 18  
  
The Owl and the Pussycat Went to Sea   
  
Two weeks passed. Five weeks passed. Two months passed. While Charlotte and Sleazy Mc Stoat made their arrangements and talked about the honeymoon, marital bliss, blah blah blah, Jen sat alone in a corner, or watched Casablanca more times than is really humanly healthy. For one of the first times in my life, I felt powerless against the two impending disasters I saw looming up on the proverbial horizon of life.   
  
And when I say "looming," I mean looming. Looming like your oldest, fattest, creakiest teacher in your school experience who breathed through her nose and said the word "drawer"like "draw"that was ever made into a parade balloon and crazy glued to your back, and you'll understand what I'm talking about.   
  
Something was wrong.  
  
Emma and Sarah hated us, okay, we knew that. We could even accept it without crying too many tears of bitter, bitter rejection in a murky, spider-infested corner. But Charlie had never really let Them (with a capital t) influence his life decisions before. And even if he had, if he loved Jen the way I'd thought he did, then it wouldn't matter, because he knew she loved him back.  
  
".........So anyway, I thought I'd get velvet and silk for the dress, which is kind of expensive, but he has money, so it's okay-"  
  
Charlotte broke into my little reverie, pointing to a picture she had drawn of a wedding dress which had, for some reason unknown to me, big poofy sleeves and a huge, fluffy tea cozy for a skirt.  
  
This was also wrong.  
  
Not just the tea cozy skirt, although there had to be a law against those somewhere in the Constitution or the Boston town charter or something. Why did she care so much about this wedding anyway? Why was my BEST FRIEND suddenly acting like all she wanted was to be a ditzy trophy wife and marry an inane, insipid man and have inane, insipid children?  
  
What was happening to my life?  
  
"Char, why do you care so much?"  
  
She looked slightly taken aback. "It's my wedding dress, Lizzy, I'm supposed to care this much,"  
  
"But you don't, do you? You're supposed to care, and that's why you pretend to, but really you know that it's all just a pathetic lie. This whole thing: your relationship with Stephen, your wedding, your 'dreams of a life afterwards'. It's all such a farce, played out to be perfect. The perfect wedding, the perfect life, the perfect ending to a sad little story. I know you Char, this isn't like you. Why do you care so much?"  
  
She fixed me with a blank look for a second, and we stared each other down across a pile of "Bride!" magazines.  
  
"Is it because you're jealous, Lizzy? Is that it?" I was speechless. What the hell was she talking about? "Is that why you're so angry? You could have gotten him but you didn't, I did, and now you're jealous,"  
  
"Jealous? Ha! You couldn't pay me enough to be jealous of your stupid 'marital bliss' with your disgusting boy toy. If you think that's what I feel, then what happened to the person I used to be friends with? He proposed to you on the same day he proposed to me. Within hours of each other. How can you not have noticed? He doesn't love you, Charlotte, and you don't love him. You're throwing your life away on a guy who couldn't find his ass with both hands on a good day, and you know what? You can't ignore the fact that you're married to an idiot. Money or no money, he's beneath you, Charlotte. You know that,"  
  
Silence. But then her face crumpled, and when she spoke, her voice had lost all its previous quiet confidence.  
  
"You will come to the wedding, won't you? You will stand next to me, right? If you're not there, I don't think I can do it, and I have to. I have to. You will come to help me. Please, Lizzy,"  
  
I looked at her, stunned, If she couldn't bring herself to do it, then why WAS she doing it? I had never actually questioned my going to her wedding, I'd always assumed that was a given. But now that I thought about it.........did I really want to go? Did I really want to stand there and watch my friend consciously throw away all her happiness?   
  
  
  
Not my cup of tea, really.  
  
I didn't answer her. I just looked at her, then looked away, not knowing what to say. Suddenly, her hand shot across the table and grabbed my wrist so hard that her knuckles went white.  
  
"Please. You have to come........please,"  
  
And, with a full knowledge of what I was doing, and what it would mean, I did the one thing in the world I didn't want to do.  
  
I agreed.  
  
"Yes, I'll go. Of course I will. Now, about the dress-"  
  
************  
  
"Eddie! Thank GOD!!!!" I cried, jumping out of the door at my aunt and uncle. I know, leaping at people isn't exactly Emily Post Etiquette Chapter One, but dammit, it was really good to see a non-lovestruck, mournful face around here.  
  
I think becoming a nun is the only way to go.  
  
"Whoa there Lizzy. I want a husband, not a pancake," said Rachel, my aunt, giving me a big hug too.  
  
"Is Jen packed?" Eddie asked as they followed me into the kitchen. I offered them both a bottle of Sunny-D, then sat down on the window with my own bottle.  
  
"No. See, that's the thing-she kinda doesn't know you're coming,"  
  
They looked at me.  
  
"What!? You think she'd just jump at the chance to go to New York and 'pry' into Charlie's life? Right now she's reasoning that it's all her fault, and that she doesn't want to intrude if he justs wants to get her out of his life,"  
  
They looked at me.  
  
"Stop the staring, you look like goldfish. Good God, it's hard enough not to be depressed with all these love-sick people around me, without you two coming and acting like it's all my fault!"   
  
"'Depressed, love-sick people'?" asked Rachel, smiling.  
  
I rolled my eyes. "Yup. Kat and Rowan are secretly pining for each other while thinking that the other has no feelings for them at all, Mary's getting all teary-eyes about Mr. Fish-face (long story) and Lydia's having another one of those 'love of her life' things,"   
  
"Again?"  
  
"This is the seventh time this year." We sat for a moment, smiling slightly. Eddie reached out to his wife and kissed her hand, while I looked away, feeling thoroughly alone.  
  
  
  
"Look, I want Jen to go with you. It's not just for her, but it's for me. I don't want her to stay like this. I can't see her in this condition for much longer, or I'll go insane out of sympathy. Please, just take her. It doesn't have to be long."   
  
They looked at me for a moment in that weird, searching way that makes you totally uncomfortable and hope they don't really have X-ray vision.   
  
Although that might be kinda fun.  
  
Getting off track.  
  
Getting back on track.  
  
"What are you gonna tell her? 'Oh and by the bye Jen, I forgot to tell you that Eddie got transferred to the New York office, and that you're going with them in five minutes so pack your bags so you can spy on your old boyfriend?' Yeah, that would go over well" Rachel said, downing the last of her Sunny-D.  
  
"That's about the sight of it. The less time she has to think about it, the less time she has to talk herself out of it, and the more time she has to resent me, which makes for a very good reunion when she regrets the resentment. Look, blame it all on me, say I thrust her onto you with just as little notice when you'd only come to say goodbye. Say whatever makes you feel better, but she needs to leave this house, and she needs to do it now,"  
  
I was giving them the evil eye at the same time, which is hard, considering I'm not a chameleon . But it seemed to work well enough, because Eddie sighed and got up, accepting his fate as the responsible uncle taking care of the insane, unpredictable niece.  
  
Good.  
  
Foolish mortals, they should all conform to the majesty of Mighty Queen Lizzy's will!  
  
  
  
Hahahahahahahahahaha.........................  
  
Looking back on it now, I realize that I should have been laughing INSIDE my head, not ouside. But my brain was so fried from no sleep and wedding dresses and Casablanca that I didn't even realize that I had said those last two things out loud. My aunt and uncle turned to look at me weirdly as I began to chortle evilly again, right in the middle of my kitchen.  
  
  
  
*******************  
  
"AndomigodLizzyyou'tneverbelievemeifItoldyouDennykissedmehekissedmehekissed meandwe'regoingoutnowandwe'resohappywemadeoutlastnightandthenightbeforeandth enightbeforeandthenightbeforeandtomorrowwe'regonnahave ------"  
  
"Mary, not to stomp on your happiness or anything, but I don't think I want to know, okay?" Rowan said, as the rest of the breakfast table gave her the evil eye.  
  
"Not exactly the best over-Cheerios conversation," agreed Kat, digging a handful out of the box.  
  
"Oooh! We still have some Cheerios? Chuck me some!" said Lydia, grabbing a couple of Frosted Shredded Wheat (Rowan's favorite).  
  
"Liz-mastah, are you okay?" asked Row, looking at me cautiously. I noticed there was a box of Cinnamon Life, and I hadn't touched it at all.  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine," I said, opening the box of the Best Cereal On Earth (not that I'm advertising or anything, but het yourself a box as soon as possible, and taste prepackaged heaven) and taking out a handful. "Just a little tired,"  
  
"Bull," snickered Lydia, "You're missing that guy, what's-his-name, Fred or something,"  
  
If only my eyes shot laser beams. Not only would that be fabulously, award- winningly kick-ass (which it would) but then I could have burned/melted/evaporated Lydia into a pile of giggling, teenage goo right where she sat.  
  
  
  
But now that I think of it, that's not too charming a mental picture.  
  
"Lizzy," said Kat, in that information-wheedling voice that made my name sound like "Lih-ZEEEEEEE,"  
  
"Uh, yeah, Kuh-um, AT?" I said in what I hoped was an innocent voice.  
  
Obviously not innocent enough, because they had all jumped out of their seats, and were crowded around my chair, fixing me with that "tell us everything you know, earthling," type look.  
  
  
  
Yes, my personal bubble was being invaded.  
  
"Spill it now," said Kat, making threatening glances from my sock to the purple lighter in her hand.  
  
"There's really not that much to tell, guys, apart from what Big-Mouth over there said already,"  
  
Rowan cleared his throat and looked furiously interested in the Cheerios nutrition information.  
  
"OhcomeonethereHAStobemore!" said Mary, exasperated.  
  
"Yeah, have you lie, boned yet?" Lydia made various suggestive eyebrow shrugs.  
  
"Ewwwww, no! Stop crowding , me please I need at least three feet of personal space," They sighed and backed off.  
  
"Yeah guys, if we don't watch out, she'll turn into the Hulk right in front of us, and then what'll we do?" Said Rowan.  
  
I hucked a handful of Trix at him.  
  
"Dork,"  
  
"Dork-tastic, and damn proud of it,"  
  
"So what's REALLY going on between you and lover-boy?" asked Lydia, getting her three-inch heels on in preparation for a long, grueling day of hanging around and doodling on her notebook margins.  
  
"Nothing, okay? He's got a girlfriend, anyway,"  
  
"What? Who?????????????" asked Rowan, who was way too into this discussion.  
  
"Some rich redhead from Florida who's here to 'see the world'," I said, trying not to make it sound like there was any innuendo.  
  
Which there WAS.  
  
Not that I'm jealous or anything.  
  
I'm not.  
  
I don't like him like that, honest.  
  
I swear.  
  
I think.  
  
**********************   
  
Dear Lizzy,   
  
I've been here for about three weeks, and I still don't feel at home at all New York isn't like Boston. For one thing, there are way too many Yankees fans, and even though I don't follow baseball, it's all the principal of the thing, isn't it?   
  
Three weeks.........that's a long time to be away from home, I guess. I sound like a three year old I know but it's true. Eddie and Rachel are trying really, really,really hard to make their apartment somewhat welcoming. There were pictures of stick figures torturing other stick figures on the wall when we got here, and after five coats of paint I can still see the words "Die Die Forever," right over my bed every night. Not too comforting, is it?   
  
I wrote to Emma to tell her I'd be here. She never answered me, so I called her house. She wasn't in, and she was sick. (If she was sick, then why would she not be in? I still don't understand that part.) There was still no answer after a week, so I decided that the butler had forgotten to give her my message, and that the mail had gotten misplaced or something. Well, if she wasn't coming to me, then I would go to her.   
  
She wasn't there when I went to their house for the first time. Or the second. Or even the third, though I guess they're busy with lots of things here so I never got annoyed. Finally, about a week after I'd tried to visit, Emma came to see us. She wasn't happy about the painting, or the construction, and even the idea of going down onto the street for a walk wasn't any good. She was very polite, and brisk, and.........to the point, I'd guess you'd say.   
  
But you were right, Lizzy.   
  
She doesn't like me. She tolerated me all the time we've known each other, and nothing more. We were never friends. I suppose it was good of her to be so nice to me when she didn't like me in the first place, but it doesn't help the pain that much. She kept hinting that Charlie has another girl in his life and that he's interested in "starting fresh," and how he was much happier now than he'd been since last September. Maybe he is. Because whatever goes on in their suite, he has to know I'm here. He has to. No one could ignore how much I trying to contact them, or even keep from him that I was in town. He has to know. So the only thing I could get from the whole thing, Lizzy, is that we were wrong.  
  
He doesn't want to see me.  
  
Eddie and Rachel send their love.   
  
Jen   
  
************** (Dom dom dom........mounting tension music, notice the rising action.........bom bom bom bom, bom bom bom bom BOM!)   
  
Imagine this if you will: a small church packed with relations and people I'd never met ever in my life.   
  
Banners of lavender and green hanging from the rafters, the bridesmaid (yes, bridesmaid, singular) dressed to match.  
  
  
  
  
  
Lavender doesn't look good on me, I'm afraid.   
  
Nor did Stephen Baker, that walking piece of prune Jello-O, look good in a powder blue tux with his hair slicked back, looking even more oily than before. I wonder if he secretes the stuff........ He looked especially bad standing next to my beautiful, idiotic best friend, who was calm and collected, holding a bouquet of soft purple tulips in her tea cozy gown.   
  
Stupid Charlotte.   
  
Stupid Stephen.   
  
Stupid Lizzy, for letting yourself get roped into being the bridesmaid. I hate little white gloves, and yet there I was, wearing them, and holding a smaller bouquet so tight that the mother of the bride was looking at me like I was going to run up to her daughter and give her the sleeper hold then jump onto a plane and fly with her to Timbuktu and then sell her body to the natives for a human sacrifice while I paint mud on my face and dance around the fire, singing wild chants to the moon goddess.   
  
Yeah, right, like I didn't already have a plane ticket waiting, lady.   
  
Charlotte looked too calm for this crap.   
  
Utterly stupid.   
  
Utterly.   
  
Utter. Ly.   
  
Udder Leigh.   
  
One of these days I'm going to write a story about a brave dog named Udder Leigh who becomes a detective. The first book would be called 'Udder Leigh Courageous," and go on from ther until the end comes with "Udder Leigh Breakfast" where he gets mistaken for a small bovine in the wilds of Romania and things go downhill from there.   
  
Yes, I am insane. Would you like to see the certificate they gave me?   
  
I had just about mastered my person-melting mind powers when the Rev. Stephen Baker (my arch nemesis and best friend thief) lifted the veil and planted a thoroughly disgusting kiss (to which the gullible crowd went "ooooooooooh" and "aaaahhhhhhhh") on Charlotte's lips.   
  
Dammit! How long was I thinking about that stupid dog detective?   
  
They ran down the aisles, with me right behind them, while the people threw rice at them and yelled happy things.   
  
If I could have thrown a ten-pound weight with total accuracy to knock Stephen flat on his face, I would have done it.   
  
Not that I would have wanted/needed/waited for an excuse.   
  
The happy crowd followed the not-so-happy couple out the door, and cheered as she threw the bouquet and all that jazz. There would be no reception. This was the last I would see of my friend for awhile. I gave her a kick kiss goodbye, and squeezed her hand, pressing the store-bought ear plugs I had gotten into her palm before they both climbed into the car, and drove off. I stood, watching them leave, feeling worse than I ever remember feeling.   
  
Good for Charlotte. Quite a catch. Not every day you go looking for eels and find one who can walk and talk and pretend to deep think thoughts.  
  
  
  
Not every day you marry someone with whom you'll have no chance of ever being happy.   
  
"What are you thinking now?"   
  
I started and turned, only to see Fred Wickham standing behind me, smiling a little.   
  
"Oh I was just thinking about how I want to grow up to be just like Charlotte and get married at age twenty-one to guy I don't even like and have a totally unfulfilling life, all because he has money."   
  
"That's sad. Anything I can do to change your mind?"   
  
"Can we talk? I haven't talked to anyone even slightly sane for weeks,"   
  
:Sure," he said, moving to sit down on the church steps.   
  
Silence. Notice the total lack of talking in a "sane conversation ."   
  
Social connotations? I think so.   
  
"So I've heard you're engaged to Emily King, right? Congratulations," I said casually, sitting down a little way apart from him.   
  
He stopped, and looked guilty. "You must hate me," he said quietly, looking out across the street at the playground.   
  
"Nope. Don't worry, there was nothing terribly painful for me about it," I said, smiling.   
  
He grinned too, and said, "Yeah, we are getting married. Actually, she's the second closest I've come to getting married, incase you're statistically minded. Hopefully this will go farther,"  
  
  
  
"What happened with the first one? Who was she?" I asked, intrigued despite myself.   
  
"Will Darcy's sister, Georgiana," he said, looking down at his hands.   
  
This was new.   
  
"What happened?" I asked again.   
  
"Well, we'd always been close, and when we got a little older we'd planned to get married. But then I realized she wasn't the girl I wanted. She was cold, and distant, and a little shallow. Plus it didn't help that Will Darcy was her brother. She'd be about sixteen now, the same age as Lydia,"   
  
"Lydia's fifteen,"   
  
He looked guilty for a second, and together we stared out at the streets of Boston, both wrapped up in our own little world.   
  
We left each other eventually. He got into his car and drove off, and I walked and took the T, trying not to notice the weird looks I was getting from the Jehovah's Witnesses women and the guy with the billboard broadcasting the end of the world.   
  
What a city.  
  
That subway ride home was a whole lot different from the one I'd be taking in a month. For one thing, the subway had a sguy named Larry who continually tried to hit on me all the way home, while smoking cigarette after cigarette and telling me about how his father was a wooly mammoth and his mother was a crocodile, so he was hung like an elephant and liked to bite (at which he bared his teeth "menacingly", or it would have been if he had any to begin with). And there was the guy in the bunny suit, but we won't go into that just yet.   
  
That next ride would be in a nice, shiny, Rolls Royce. Who knew I would have preferred the ride on the T with Larry and Mr. Bun Buns than a drive in one of the most expensive cars in the world (other than that hovercraft from Albania that quacks like a duck and has a driver's seat that turns into a recliner). This Rolls Royce was kinda like what I'd envisioned Sing- Sing prison to be: bing, cold and silent.   
  
And we would be heading straight for Rosings Park, where everything would change. 


	20. Ripe Tomata, Green Peas

A/N: Hey again. This is part of my guilt for not being able to post for so long. Also, it's part of my pent-up writing....genius? Insanity? Well, whatever it is, I've been aching to write more and haven't been able to, which I'm glad of considering all I would have had to do to get THAT chapter up and running as well. But here we are, at Rosings Park (possibly my favorite part of the book because it has Mrs. De Bourgh, and she's so fun to write, or it MIGHT be the visions of a lovely Colin Firth proposing to Lizzy... I dunno if I can promise that much in this chapter, but I'll try).  
  
Word of advice: If someone tells you how much work they've done to do something that's presumably good, then don't complain that it's not enough or that it's about time it happened. I'm not pointing fingers or anything, but it made me mad, and I don't normally get very mad about anything except my ceramics class. I know that you've been waiting for a while, and so have I , only I've been trying to post, so it's not fair to me when you complain about how long it took. I know it took long, and that's why I apologized, and why I'm doing my best to post faster .So please, don't do it to anyone else, because it's not appreciated at all. But enough of that. This is the best part of the whole damn story (well one of them, not including Pemberly) and you deserve to read it!  
  
Get along, li'l dawgies, to  
  
Chapter 19: Ripe Tomata, Green Peas  
  
"And I find that these stairs are the greatest stairs for a man like myself. Do you see, sir, that they aren't shallow, yet at the same time, they aren't steep,"  
  
Charlotte and I rolled our eyes at each other . This was the fifteenth time that we had heard about staircases in the whole half hour that I had been there.  
  
There = Charlotte and Weasel Boy's house, for all those interested.  
  
"I suppose it is, Stephen. A very nice staircase. That it is," bumbled Charlotte's father. He and his younger daughter Maria were staring at the house in amazement. I'm not terribly sure why, even now. I mean it wasn't big, and it wasn't small.  
  
Yup, just an ordinary, plain-jane, nothing-to-see-here type house. And all the time I was thinking "THIS IS WHAT YOU DID THIS FOR? WHAT ARE YOU, BLOODY INSANE???"  
  
But I was saying, "Probably the nicest staircase North, South, East, of West of the Pecos,"  
  
"That it is, my dear cousin, that it is. The very picture of perfection. Like my garden sir, let me show you," and Stephen, in all his glory, minced his way out of La Casa De Collins and into his garden, trailing the other two Lucases.  
  
Charlotte and I stood looking at each other for a minute.  
  
"How're things?" I asked, breaking the totally out-of-character silence.  
  
"Oh they're great. Just great," she said, smiling a little.  
  
"Read: things have never been worse and you drink your dinner every night watching Guys and Dolls in your own personal room, then play solitaire continually til three am and wake up to do it all over again,"  
  
"Ouch, that was bleak,"  
  
I winked playfully.  
  
"No, actually, things are totally different from that. Well, maybe not about solitaire bit........."  
  
I chuckled, and we walked out of the hall, with its "serviceable, appropriate" staircase.  
  
"But things are as good as possible," she said, taking me into a room that overlooked the garden in which Stephen was prancing around like My Little Pony on crack, showing the two comatose goldfish of in-laws all of his magnolia trees and Cosmos and Thyme.  
  
"He likes reading, you know," she said, still looking out the window at her choice of honey-bunch. "He reads just about every day. He stays in the library to do that of course,"  
  
"Of course," I glanced at her. She had a trace of her old sly smile back. Hmmmm.  
  
"And I like reading too, and watching TV. And then of course, I have to write letters to everyone at the church, so I do that, but in here. Sometimes it takes me all day,"  
  
"And then Stephen works in the garden," I added, as we watched Rev. Baker do a pirouette in the middle of his azaleas.  
  
" All the time. It's good for the health, you know,"  
  
"Exercise,"  
  
"Oh, definitely,"  
  
Silence.  
  
"So really, Lizzy, sometimes we go whole weeks without really ever saying anything to each other at all,"  
  
I looked at her. She was calm, exactly like the calm she had been at her wedding.  
  
"I'm actually happy, Lizzy. I know you don't believe me, but it's true. I AM happy,"  
  
"I wouldn't doubt it, old chum. You must be happy with all this reading you're doing. It enlarges the mind,"  
  
"Yes, it does. I think I'll be able to exist in this place very happily. I mean, I get food every day--"  
  
Major achievement, Charlotto-san  
  
"- and I have roof over my head. And I have Stephen,"  
  
Hunk-o-rama, Stephen has now been chosen as the Number One Comfort of Charlotte Lucas-Baker's Sad and Discarded Life.  
  
Congratulations, Mr. Stoat.  
  
But, I mean, isn't life more than just existing everyday? Isn't it more that eating a few meals and sleeping in a bed with a crap-load of wood protecting you from the onslaught of demon Mother Nature? Isn't it LIVING, and not just breathing? Isn't it being happy and not just satisfied?  
  
Well, tickle me pink and name me Charlie, but I always thought that there was more to life than a couple of burgers and an umbrella.  
  
But that's just me. I'm sure the general public has a very different idea.  
  
Without another word, we both left the room. I took special care to close the door behind me.  
  
The Secret Garden of Charlotte Baker was preserved for some time yet to come.  
  
************************ "Lizzy! My God, come quick!"  
  
I jumped from where I was dozing (awkward position actually. I'd fallen asleep looking for my sock under  
  
the bed) then fell over onto the floor.  
  
Queen of Graceful.  
  
That would be if graceful was a country. As in, Queen of the Graceful Country. If it were a country.  
  
Which it's not.  
  
I'm also fabulously talented. Have I mentioned?  
  
And intelligent too.  
  
Hoo boy.  
  
"LIZZY!!!!!! COME DOWN HERE NOW!! YOU'VE GOT TO SEE SOMETHING,"  
  
That's right, someone was calling my name.  
  
I ran down the stairs (not too steep), expecting to see a part of the house on fire or at least an Irish midget tangoeing with Papa Smurf (doesn't it give you lovely mental pictures?). Something interesting enough to warrant the screaming/excitement/fainting that was happening at the window.  
  
But it really wasn't any of that.  
  
What it was was a car.  
  
A BIG car, yes, but just a car. It had no roof, and must have weighed as much as three elephants and a Honey Bun, because it stretched, taking up Charlotte's driveway and most of the road too. Inside it were two women: a short, squat old one with a parasol (yes, parasol) talking to Charlotte, and a younger one who looked like a rat with a permanent stick up its ass. Maria squealed next to me, jumping up and down like it was Christmas or something (Or Hannukah or Kwanza, take your pick). That's me, culturally diverse.).  
  
"This is SO exciting Lizzy! Can you believe our luck??!??!!"  
  
"What, is THAT Catherine De Bourgh?" I said, looking curiously out at Mrs. Parasol.  
  
"No, stupid! That's Anna Carthige, one of her servants. The girl next to her though is Catherine De Bourgh's daughter!"  
  
I looked out at The Rat. She snapped at Mrs. Parasol angrily, and then slammed the car door shut.  
  
And THIS was the girl Will Darcy was supposed to marry?  
  
She smacked Anna on the face, then ordered the car to drive on.  
  
Excellent.  
  
She'd give him the kind of life he deserved. Things may have be looking up.  
  
**************************************  
  
"And here we have the front door of Her house. It is thought that the door itself cost over two thousand dollars. I hear that it was imported all the way from India, where they make doors such as these are made........."  
  
Shoot me. Shoot me now.  
  
This was my third day at Charlotte's house and already the idea of throttling the Fantastic Mr. Reverand seemed so fabulous I couldn't resist little maniacal giggles whenever I thought of it.  
  
"Cousin Elizabeth?" said Boy Weasel.  
  
I broke off mid-giggle.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I asked your opinion on the gardens,"  
  
I looked around. "The gardens" turned out to be a huge front lawn carefully cut to be no more than half an inch at any one point. No flowers in this garden, oh no. Perhaps her Ladyship was offended by flowers or something.  
  
"It's very.........neat," I said. Stephen looked like he had been dying for my answer, like it would somehow explain his whole existence or something.  
  
"Exactly! Exac-tly! That is exactly what it is! Isn't it our good fortune to live near someone as prosperous and organized as Madam deBourgh?"  
  
Well golly golly gosh, I know that would have made MY life a whole lot better.  
  
"You're good friends with Mrs. De Bourgh?"  
  
"Oh, the best of friends! The VERY best of friends! You see, she insists that we eat dinner at her house at least twice a week, and she never ever lets us walk home,"  
  
"That's great........."  
  
Yeah, great in a wicked creepy, gross manipulating sort of way, ya monkey.  
  
I looked back at Charlotte, who raised her eyebrows suggestively. I snorted.  
  
"And we're never allowed to say no, either," she said quietly.  
  
"You are right, darling, never," Said Mr. Wonderful, obviously taking the words at face value.  
  
We had arrived at the two thousand dollar Indian door, and it was opened by a butler who looked an awful lot like my friend Pronby Topping from Charlie's house, minus the obvious exception that he looked as if he could freeze fire with a single glare. But he probably couldn't leap tall building with a single bound. Damn this world of non-Superheroes!  
  
We were showed into a huge parlor (read : living room with uncomfortable chairs and a big al fresco on the wall depicting a half-naked woman being set upon by priests with up-turned eyes).  
  
Charming.  
  
Maybe flowers DID offend her.  
  
We all had to sit (all= Charlotte, Stephen, Maria and Mr. Lucas) on one couch, even though there were two in the room. I was just pulling my elbow out from where it had been stuck under Mr.Lucas, and taking my foot from behind my head (interesting game of Twister, no?) when a tall, imposing shadow fell across my face. I looked up, and there, in all her silk- dressing- gowned glory was the untterly anticlimactic Mrs. Catherine de Bourgh.  
  
Little did I know that this short, squat woman with a cane would try (and almost succeed to make my visit and my life a living hell.  
  
"Gooday, Mr. Baker,"  
  
A/N: Hey guys, I'm sorry for the delay this time. It wasn't technical, but it was sort of psychological. You see, I've been writing my story on one computer up until this chapter. Now that my old computer is dead (and I mean DEAD) I have to write on my family's and it's not the same for some reason. This time it IS my fault that this is late. But don't worry, now that I'm used to Ole Bessie here, there will be more (an even longer chapter next time, although this one didn't break any records) Thanks to all of you who have some semblance of patience.  
  
About my pen name: Thanks to everyone who was creative in my place, because it meant a whole kit 'n' kaboodle (sorry, I'm tired). The winning name (which will be my penname as of next chapter) is TheBrilliantFool, courtesy of Outlaw Eris. Runner-ups go to shapeless mage with her elvin names and to cheezyweezymouse for Inanimate Object.  
  
So, next time we meet, my friends, I shall be Moonchild5 no more! I shall be.........Brilliant Fool! Now onward, to adventure! 


	21. Blah Blah

A/N: Heyo everybody! Sorry aboot the delay (TOTALLY MY FAULT) but I had a show/homework/was extra extra lazy what with wanting extra sleep and all. But here's the next chapter, and I hope it's good enough!  
  
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away there was:  
  
Chapter 20: Blah blah blah  
  
We sat, facing her couch.  
  
Yes, an entire couch all to her onesies.  
  
Which is really no wonder when you consider how potent her perfume ("Pleasing Musk") was. Six feet away, I was holding my breath, trying not to look impolite while also attempting to not die of suffocation.  
  
Double tasking is hard, dammit!  
  
The conversation had been going on for about an hour, and, like my Aunty Mildred on her bike, wasn't going anywhere. I mean, how long can you talk about how much people loved the scarf you had four days ago?  
  
A lot, obviously.  
  
".........And it's such a shame you missed it, Mr. Baker, for it was very lovely. As I was saying to my daughter the other day, 'It's such a shame that the Bakers did not see my scarf today, for it is very lovely,' and of course she agreed with me, for it was very lovely,"  
  
Yes, for an hour.  
  
And you thought Stephen Baker was the life of the party! Wait till you get a load of that happenin' Catherine de Bourgh, the woman who has everything, and yet is still the most uninteresting person I know!  
  
Whoopee.  
  
Now, I know what you're thinking (I'm psychic). Or maybe I don't (I'm faking the whole psychic thing). But the fact of the matter is that someone this fantastically insipid should not be able to try (and almost succeed) to make my life a living hell.  
  
You were all thinking that, right?  
  
Well, the conversation was boring until it turned to me.  
  
And no, I'm not being egocentric or arrogant or anything, that's just the way it was. (Gotta be truthful at all times!)  
  
She turned her pudgy little bat eyes on me about an hour into the conversation (to which I'd contributed squat) and appraised me. I got the feeling that she thought I was lucky for this attention.  
  
And there was much rejoicing.  
  
"Lottie-" her disgusting version of endearment to Char. I saw her wince slightly, "You're friend seems to be a pretty little thing,"  
  
Thanks honey, you'll be getting a fruitcake for Christmas.  
  
"Wherever did you find her?"  
  
Well, actually, there's a funny story that goes with that. You see, I was an abandoned orphan struggling desperately with a crack addiction and I was looking for food in her dumpster and saved me from myself.  
  
Okay, so it's not that funny. But neither is the idea that Charlotte (Lottie) had had to dig someone up to pretend to be my friend out of the blue.  
  
Old bag.  
  
"Well, Mrs. De Bourgh, we've actually been friends for all our lives. You see Lizzie was-"  
  
"-Do you like what you see here, Elizabeth?" Said Mrs. Arrogant Penguin, gesturing vaguely around the room.  
  
I looked. Apart from the wicked weird mural thing (can you tell I'm from Boston? Pahk yah cah in the Hahvahd Yahd. Although technically not only is that illegal but it's virtually impossible to get through the iron gates that surround the durn thing. Sorry if I've spoiled your belief in accent stereotypes.) there was really nothing that intriguing or remotely interesting. All the furniture matched. There were no rancid yogurt stains on the pillows. There were about two colors (read: gray and brown) in the whole room. That is, if you don't count the pink of the half-naked woman and the blood on the priest's cudgels.  
  
I'll wait for you to try and find that in the last chapter (hint: it's near the end).  
  
Okay, now that we're all caught up to speed.  
  
I couldn't answer her truthfully. I DIDN'T like it. In fact, I LESS than liked it. It reminded me of math class in tenth grade, when, in one of my dozing stupors (Don't ever get math first period unless you're really REALLY motivated and, unlike the general teenage populace, get enough sleep at night.) Dreamed that all the color was draining from the room, and from the world.  
  
Freud, help me interpret my psycho dreams.  
  
So, I couldn't answer yes, because that was a lie. And I couldn't answer no because Stephen looked like he would pounce on me if I dishonored the gross love of his life, and then disembowel me and stick my head on a stake.  
  
So what do we do in these situations, kids?  
  
We become diplomatic.  
  
Everyone around me, including Catherine de Bourgh and the little weasel she called her daughter, were giving me the evil eye. Realizing just a tad too late that I had taken fie seconds to answer the She Demon's question, I said QUITE diplomatically, "It's very impressive,"  
  
"Yes, I do agree, madam, I do indeed, for you see--" said Stephen, only to be cut off by de Bourgh, who seemed to have a thing for interrupting people. "Yes," she said, looking at me as if I 'd just answered a really hard riddle and she was wondering whether to nuture my intelligence or squash me like a bug.  
  
I'm not fond of being squashed, really.  
  
"Although, if you'll excuse my suggesting, I think you'd benefit from more color in your house. I mean, I for one understand the majesty and all that of having classic style pieces in an old house, but with the darkness of the rooms themselves coupled by the dark color of the fabric, the whole house just looks dismal,"  
  
Dead silence.  
  
For about two minutes.  
  
I was looking at Catherine (forced first name terms), who was looking at me. The rest were all averting their eyes to some different part of the couch/room/little dog who had appeared out of nowhere.  
  
Hehe. Hugo St. Regis.  
  
"You're a bit...young to be expressing your opinions so freely, Elizabeth."  
  
Oh, so it was this game, was it?  
  
"Well, I am now my own legal guardian, Catherine. If this is too young, I'd like to see the age when I do get to express my opinions,"  
  
More dead silence.  
  
For the rest of the afternoon.  
  
Yep, when it comes to first impressions, I'm a pro.  
  
****************************** (Journal entry #________, page )  
  
I hang up the pay phone angrily, and stalk back to my car.  
  
The fact that I'm at a rest stop in the middle on the Middlesex Turnpike doesn't seem to matter to my charming godmother. I have to be there the minute I told her I would.  
  
Lateness is inexcusible.  
  
Frigid bitch. I'd like to see her wait for hours at a rest stop because your stupid cousin is late for our meeting.  
  
Maybe I should rethink the "I'd like to see her bit". I wouldn't. I don't want to. For as long as I hadn't seen her for the past years, I had been perfectly happy.  
  
And then came the ultimatum: "Visit me here, boy, or I will visit you at Pemberly."  
  
Dammit. The prospect of her going near my house was frightening. Especially if she got her claws into Georgiana, and started talking about shame and virginity and the fear of God and all that. And then Georgie would fell guilty about what had happened, and she would get upset and cry, and I would have to break the two of them up, and then "Auntie" would drop subtle hints about the lack of interest men had in "experienced" girls for as long as she chose to keep her fat bum on my favorite couch. Which could be months.  
  
People suck.  
  
"Come on Jon, any day now,"  
  
Jon is my cousin, a tiny Londoner with a goatee and quick, laughing eyes. Apparently, Auntie de Bourgh needs his love and affection at the same time she needs mine. Self- centered hag. But at least it would give me an ally for the weeks she would make me stay there. Weeks where I should be in Scotland with Georgie.  
  
"Dammit all to Hell!" I mutter, kicking the tire of the my car. This little jaunt in the country side would give me a lot of time to think about things while I pretended to listen to the endless compliments shallow people gave to the richest woman in America.  
  
And a lot of things to not think about.  
  
I don't know why, but in about every entry I've written since I met her, I've mentioned her in some way or another. A joke or a song I heard from her, or her hair color or eye color or the like.  
  
I've got to pull myself together here. I can, too. There's nothing like three weeks with Insane Narcissistic Woman for a good turn-off.  
  
Maybe I can defeat this. Maybe I can make it better.  
  
It all depends on my never seeing her again.  
  
Which I can handle very well, I think.  
  
******************************  
  
It had been three weeks of the same basic schedule.  
  
Wake up.  
  
Eat Breakfast (runny scrambled eggs and toast on toast racks or bran. Lots and lots of bran)  
  
Fill the moments of boredom in my life with something. Read same book over and over. Write story of Udder Leigh the dog. Revise story. Write again. Revise again. Illustrate and type.  
  
Have lunch with Charlotte (waffles or sandwiches or soup or celery and peanut butter). Watch Stephen in his gardener self and make duck jokes at his expense.  
  
Fill afternoon with mother things. Take walk in woods, hoping for a posse of woodland creatures to jump out and intice me to sing a Soprano-ranged song full of "ahhhs" and "laaas" and "My loves". (Note: this never happens)  
  
Go to the Warthog's house. Eat, watch her slurp her way through everything. Sit on couch in what must be new tantric position. Listen to stories of how cool she is. Resist urge to strangle .  
  
Go to bed.  
  
Repeat.  
  
This happened for three weeks (count 'em, three) until one day, as we were shown into the dining room, I saw a face that I had never EVER hoped to see again.  
  
Well, yes Catherine was there. But more to the point, it was a nice- looking, brown-eyed Scottish face, staring at me as if I were Santa Claus being eaten by a rabid midget.  
  
And, as I have left off every chapter so far (just about), guess who that someone was?  
  
If you guessed Will Darcy, you get 100 points.  
  
A/N: Hope you liked my first chapter under a new pen name. Sorry it took so long! 


	22. Make that Coffee Black

A?N: Hi guys, sorry about the stupidly predictable cliffhanger. Hopefully this chapter was faster than the other ones (though that's not hard).  
  
Fire the torpedos ,captain, at  
  
Chapter 21: Make That Coffee Black  
  
You've all seen goldfish, right? You know the way they open and close their mouth? Well, imagine two goldfish staring each other down in the ultimate goldfish staring battle of all time.  
  
Now take away about twenty IQ points.  
  
That's what was happening at that moment.  
  
Things don't get better do they? No, they get worse as a swift kick- in-the-ass for ever thinking that they might improve even a teensy bit.  
  
So Charlie left, and Stephen had his whole "I love you" thing, and Fred was getting married and Charlotte GOT married and dragged me here and Catherine is a self-righteous hag and now Will Darcy, the winner of the Absolute Worst Person Ever Award was sitting at my spot at the table.  
  
A spot that he would likely be occupying for the entire time Charlotte wanted me to stay here.  
  
Question: How is this at all fair?  
  
Answer: It isn't, you just must suck as a person.  
  
As always is these surprising situations, I was NOT the first to recover.  
  
But fortunately for my pride, neither was he.  
  
The first one to burst in on our general stupor was a short, brown haired man with a little beard on his pointed chin.  
  
He was wearing a lacrosse sweatshirt that had "Jon" on the sleeve. I deduced through my fabulous reasoning skills, that his name was Jon, he liked lacrosse, and he must be connected somehow to Catherine de Bourgh and Will Darcy.  
  
Astounding discovery, you twit.  
  
"You're Lizzy Bennet?"  
  
"Ummm, yeah I am," I said, and managed to make it sound enough like a question for Catherine and Stephen to simultaneously say "Yes, you are,"  
  
Excellent. Lizzy is now in the 100th percentile for eloquence.  
  
I will be accepting my award shortly.  
  
"Brilliant! I'm Jon Darcy, cousin to that thing over at the table," he said, chuckling and pointing at a now-icy Darcy.  
  
Icy Darcy. Heehee.  
  
"But I think you two have met before, yes?"  
  
"Once or twice," Dacry said to his sausages and toast.  
  
"Elizabeth Bennet, I need to know exactly what you are saying!" Said The Eternal Pain in the Ass at the head of the table.  
  
Jon, Darcy, and I all rolled our eyes simultaneously.  
  
"Nothing, Aunt Catherine," Jon said, and pulled out the chair next to his for me.  
  
Breakfast was chilly, to say the least. Not that the breakfasts of Pre-Darcy Rosings had been particularly warm and fuzzy, but at least I hadn't had two people who utterly despised me at the table before.  
  
Bastards. They were probably conspiring against me right now. I could just see them club me into unconsciousness and stuff me in a duffel bag, preparing to sell me to loggers in the Mongolian mountains.  
  
Well no way, sonny jim. I wasn't going back there in a hurry.  
  
But at least Jon tried to keep the conversation going.  
  
"I've heard a lot about you, Lizzy – can I call you Lizzy? – yes well Will here said just the other day that he-"  
  
"Pass me the salt, Jon," Said Darcy suddenly interrupting Jon's flow.  
  
"he- What? Oh, yes, here you go- Where was I?" he looked confused for a moment.  
  
"You were about to say what Will said to you just the other day," I prompted. I was interested in whatever Darcy had said that didn't make people run screaming for the nearest safehouse when they met me.  
  
"Oh! Oh, I was wasn't I? Well let's see... dammit, I think I forgot," he stroked his little beard for a second. "Yeah, sorry. I would have told you, but...Christ! What was it?"  
  
"How are your roommates? And your mother?" said Darcy (the non-Jon one) from across the table.  
  
Pompous ass. Good trick reminding me of the way my mother acted at Netherfield. I'd have to remember that next time I wanted to embarrass someone horribly.  
  
"They're all fine. Actually, Jen's been in New York for the past few months. Haven't you seen her?"  
  
He stiffened a little more and gave me a cold glare.  
  
"No. I haven't,"  
  
And then he turned to his toast again, taking time to butter it carefully, and didn't catch my eye again.  
  
**************  
  
"Will Darcy is WHERE?" Rowan yelled into the phone.  
  
"I know! I know! What the hell am I supposed to do?"  
  
"You can bloody leave and come back to a relatively normal place," he said angrily.  
  
"Y'know that would be a great idea except for the fact that I couldn't do that. I promised Char I'd stay here as long as I could and I don't consider Will Darcy to be a good reason to leave,"  
  
"What do you owe Charlotte? She practically got married behind your back,"  
  
I stopped pacing the room and looked out the window to where the two Darcys and my friend were sitting and listening to Stephen talk about the advantages of lilies.  
  
"There's more to it than that Row," I said quietly.  
  
"Okay, okay. Listen. Jen's back from New York, and I'd put her on if she wasn't helping Lydia with her third heartbreak of the month. Do your best to ignore whatever it is that he's bound to do, and then come home safe, okay?"  
  
"Okay. Hey Row?"  
  
"Yup?"  
  
"You know that bet that we had?"  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
"Well, this may be a little late in the you-Kat game, but she was the one I would have chosen,"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Toodles,"  
  
"See ya,"  
  
*****************  
  
"Elizabeth, Lottie tells me you are a marvelous piano player!" Said Catherine nasally. We had managed to fit two more people on the Accidental Tantric Positioning Couch, which ended up with me practically on top of Darcy: The Mistake. Brushing Maria's hair away from my ear, I glared at Char, who was about three people down and had her knee resting on her father's stomach.  
  
She shrugged slightly.  
  
Thanks for the help, buddy.  
  
"Well, I did at one time but now I-"  
  
"-Excellent! Play for me now!"  
  
Jawol Mein Fuhrer.  
  
Under the passionate gaze of the bludgeoned lady (Who I learned recently was a patron saint –minus the whole saint dealy- of the de Bourgh family. Apparently she was a simple minded, naïve, pure, naked shepardess like all the heroines in the stories nowadays, and she was sent a vision of some kind (tiniest bit vague on the details in this part, my French toast was much for interesting) that predicted some kind of interesting/life- threatening/kick-ass thing that was going to happen. Because she was that simple-minded, naïve, pure, naked shepardess, no one believed her, and when it came true, this interesting/life-threatening/kick-ass thing, they decided she was a witch. And then there was the beating and the wailing and the bleeding and the holy men, and somehow in some convoluted way it ended up on the wall of Rosings Park ) Continuing sentence from above: under the passionate gaze of the bludgeoned lady, I walked to the piano, picked up the music that was there (some soulful and sad piece in D minor) and played while everyone promptly ignored me and continued on with their conversation.  
  
And suddenly (presto magico!) Darcy and Darcy (Darcy squared, ha! I'm funny and wildly original.) were at the piano watching me.  
  
Creepy, yes.  
  
Thing 1 (also called Will Darcy) stood at the other side of the piano and listened while I played. Thing 2 (the other Darcy) sat next to me and seemed more interested in talking to my left earlobe.  
  
Different strokes I guess.  
  
"Are you gonna stare at me for much longer, or should I savor the moments while they last?" I asked Darcy. "You can't intimidate me and I can't persuade you to do something better with your time,"  
  
His eyes flashed: another stunning Lizzy-Darcy argument.  
  
"You always did like expressing opinions that aren't yours. I wouldn't be surprised if people stopped listening to what you say soon, because none of it has been original so far,"  
  
"Will!" said Jon next to me.  
  
"Touché, Mr. Darcy. Jon, your cousin here is trying to turn you against me, but that's not unusual for him. We've always had this kind of relationship,"  
  
"Really? Is that how he acts in public?"  
  
"Yeah well the first time I met him was at a dance. He stood by a big pillar the whole time, even though the girls outnumbered the guys,"  
  
Jon groaned and laughed.  
  
Darcy stiffened yet again.  
  
"I'm not able to strike up conversation very easily with strangers. I don't have that talent,"  
  
Will Darcy admitting he was shy? Interesting.  
  
So I tried to change tactic and go for rhetoric.  
  
"I don't play piano very well, either. I got out of practice after I stopped performing. But that was always my fault, because I didn't take the time,"  
  
His smile was softer now. Had it been in any other person I would have called it approving and proud. I was also unfairly sexy for man I didn't like.  
  
"You're right. We're alike, you and I. We don't perform to strangers,"  
  
I finished the piece just about then, and there was silence in our little corner of the room, so we could hear Catherine in the other room say, "She is not as good as I would be by now had I ever learned to play. I would have been truly great,"  
  
This was getting stranger by the second.  
  
A/N: Sorry to cut off there, but I'm leaving for Florida tomorrow and it wouldn't have been fun for the home viewers if I hadn't posted. I had intended to write all the way up to the proposal (I mean, no proposal happens...*shifty eyes*) Damn it! I give spoilers to my own story! Thanks all of you for reviewing, and especially to the people who are just reading it for the first time now. I love you guys!  
  
Q&A: Lizzy's hair is now blonde (her natural color). Seems slightly out of character maybe, but that's the way I pictured her.  
  
To my knowledge, Wickham did not rape Georgiana. I haven't written that part yet so I have no idea about the particulars, but since I don't think rape would justify what happens with Wickham & Darcy in the end, I don't think so.  
  
I know my characters seem like mismatched people from different centuries. This is somewhat deliberate. I takes all kinds, I guess, and I love making characters like Stephen (yes I hate his name too. He's actually named after someone I know who I hate/is a gutless lady chaser. Hence the name) and Catherine. I think making it completely 20th/21st century would ruin all the fun of Austen's book, and having my "old-fashion" characters say stuff like "Yeah so they went to the mall and stuff. Oh by the way you're my cousin but I want to marry you anyway," or "Everybody loves me, I'm Catherine de Bourgh, I'm really rich and powerful, but I don't like you Lizzy," (Although those are both exaggerations) wouldn't fit at all, in my opinion.  
  
I don't talk like a stereotyped Bostonian. (The Beeah's Wicked Wahm!) I'm from the suburbs of Boston, out in the rich white suburban area with all the McMansions (big houses which are all identical and are built in the space of two days. The fast food of luxury living, hence the name) and the stuck-up rich white people who don't like diversity/change. Therefore, I have the typical American accent that you hear in the movies when the people aren't from the South/ Minnesota. I kinda wish I did, but then I might not have as much fun making jokes about it.  
  
Ta for all those from different countries (which seems to be just about everybody who reads my story besides Tessandra). And by different countries I mean everywhere that's not America, which is the vast majority of the world. Majority, I salute you!  
  
Hope all of you blessed with the wonder of spring break go outside and have fun. Don't drink and drive though, people, never a good idea.  
  
This is a very long author's note, but I'm having lots of fun and probably boring the pants off the poor shmucks who are still reading this. I just watched Pride and Prejudice again this week, trying to get the language of my chapter right, causing my youngest brother to clap his hands over his ears and yell obscenities about the number of times I watch this [edited for content] movie every [edited for content] single [edited for content] day. All my brothers think that Jane Austen's stories are all the same.  
  
Pigs.  
  
Heehee. So with that insightful bit about my own family, I call that a night. Toodles! 


	23. A Grammar Lesson

A/N: Proof to you that I'm trying to get this out faster.  
  
By the way: Lizzy IS blonde. Sorry, but that's the way it is.  
  
I'm all sunburned from Florida, and I'm tan, which I HATE. (Not that I go for the goth/anemic look, but I just don't like tanning. It's not good for you either, I've heard.  
  
A hop, skip, and a jump to:  
  
Chapter 22: The Grammar Lesson  
  
Did you know that worms are hermaphrodites? It's true. They have both male and female organs, and they mate by giving sperm to each other.  
  
They also can eat their weight in food every day.  
  
Yummy and satisfying topic, no?  
  
It's amazing the things you can learn from a truly interesting person's library.  
  
By person, I mean Stephen, and by interesting, I mean not at all.  
  
But the different kinds of worms, now THERE is a subject I can get into.  
  
Did you know that the longest worm ever found was twenty two feet long? It was found in South America.  
  
Yes, I was bored. I had run out of things to do, even. Now I was reduced to a quivering pile of brightly colored t-shirts and high tops who sat around with her Etch-A-Sketch and drew pictures of boxes. And more boxes.  
  
You'd think that all the quality time I'd spent with an Etch-A-Sketch (like the mature girl I am) would have made it possible for me to draw things like the Eiffel Tower or a guy from KISS or something.  
  
My artistic ability is nothing! DEAR GOD, WHY DID YOU CREATE ME???? WHY DO I KEEP LIVING WHEN I KNOW I WILL NEVER BE A WORLD-FAMOUS ETCH-A-SKETCH ARTIST????? WHY????????????????????????????????????  
  
And you thought people got more mature.  
  
Silly goose.  
  
Char and Sir Slinky the Stoat were out on one of the "garden rambles" that seemed to be keeping the marriage together (although how actually spending time with Stephen makes you want to stay his wife is TOTALLY beyond me). Maria and Char's father had gone back home, leaving me alone, all alone.  
  
Well, not alone. There was Jon now, who, for a member of the hated Darcy Race, was pretty damn cool. And, even better, he kept me from leaping on Catherine De Bourgh's chair and wringing her neck with one of her disgustingly thin nighties (I say one, of course, because she has many) and then turning Rosings Park into a one-woman nudist colony, running around the mansion in my nuddy-pants and singing the Hallelujah chorus at the top of my lungs, with war paint (a la Braveheart) on my face.  
  
In case the worms hadn't told you, I was THAT bored.  
  
I was also feeling the need to go home as soon as possible. Jen had called to say that she was back home, and from the wonderfully chipper tone of voice she had, I knew instantly that she was a proverbial step away from the proverbial edge, and would need weeks of severe Dawson's Creek and chocolate therapy before she was ready to take on the world again. (Personally, I would have replaced Dawson's Creek with something meaningful, like Looney Tunes or Princess Mononoke, and of course the chocolate would bow down to the Holy and Unchallenged Perfection that is the Breakfast Cereal, but I guess it takes all kinds.)  
  
Jen's crushed dreams of a kick-ass romantic future had been beaten in the ribs with a very large metaphoric baseball bat by three more letters from the Eternal Pain in my Ass Emma Bingleton, who thought it was necessary to rub in the fact that Georgiana Darcy and Charlie had gone to a romantic restaurant together.  
  
Too bad for Emma that she couldn't tag along and write down every last line that was said. Then she could really have shown Jen how much she hated her, and not left it as an ambiguously suggested footnote.  
  
Goddamn Hag. I hope she chokes on her own lipstick (Berry Passion!).  
  
But you know who I really hate?  
  
Will Darcy, that's who.  
  
He'd been following me with his eyes for the past few days like the creepiest and most unwanted of eye-stalkers this side of Timbuktu (they have some real crazies down there). I had subtly mentioned (if by subtle you mean straightforward and totally non-sneaky. Damn you tact! When will I learn how to use you???) that Jen had been in New York while he and Charlie had been there, and he got even stiffer than the usual stick up his ass would demand and say "No", then continue to eye-stalk me like I was the creepy potential pygmy child eater instead of him.  
  
Hypocrite.  
  
I was just getting to the part of my awe inspiring literature that said, "Worms like their bedding in a neutral or slightly acidic soil, so make sure soil is pH balanced," (Something that everyone wants to know) When the Son of Satan walked in.  
  
No, not Rosemary's Baby.  
  
Will Darcy, of Course.  
  
Why do they call it "Rosemary's Baby"? I mean, sure its MOTHER'S name was Rosemary, but I would think the most important part would be that he's Satan's child, right? The small fact that the main character is PREGNANT with Satan's child should somehow factor into the title, shouldn't it?  
  
Some mysteries even I, in all my enternal wisdom, cannot hope to comprehend.  
  
Yeah, I know I spelled "Eternal" wrong, you can all point and giggle.  
  
Done now?  
  
I'll wait.  
  
Excellent.  
  
Back to the story.  
  
So anyway, in walks Will Darcy, who, while he had little to no good points (emphasis on the "No" part), HAD saved me from re-reading the paragraph about the mating habits of the common European earthworm.  
  
I guess that deserves some kind of recognition.  
  
"Hello, Bennet," he said stiffly, and sat down in the arm chair across from me. (I had been using it as a foot rest earlier, but apparently Fuckwit the Ferret (commonly called Rev. Stephen Baker) didn't believe in comfortable chairs, and so I had to relinquish my claim on the chair in order to save my poor numb lower back. Baka!)  
  
"Erm...Hello, Darcy," I said.  
  
Conversational skills Mastah, that's me.  
  
"How are you?"  
  
"...Fine. You?"  
  
"I'm...fine too,"  
  
"Oh good,"  
  
Silence.  
  
Extremely uncomfortable silence.  
  
"Where are Charlotte and Baker?" he said, interrupting me as I traced the zig zag pattern of my chair's fabric.  
  
"They went for a walk over to Rosings. They'll be back soon,"  
  
"Oh yes, good, good,"  
  
Maybe I should relinquish the Least Articulate Person Ever trophy to him. But then again, he was Darcy. Damned if I'll ever give him something of mine.  
  
"Do you come here a lot?" I said, making him jump. HA! Who's starting the uncomfortable conversation now! Beeotch!  
  
Yes, I'm well aware I called him a beeotch. It's amazing how much fun it is to say. It just rolls off the tongue.  
  
Say it with me.  
  
"Beeotch,"  
  
"What?" he asked.  
  
Shit, I'd said it out loud.  
  
"Do you come here a lot?" I said again.  
  
He glanced around him. "To Baker's living room?"  
  
"No to Rosings Park,"  
  
"Yes,"  
  
"Is that good or bad?"  
  
"Take a wild guess, Bennet,"  
  
"It's good. Actually it's great. You can't wait to see Catherine de Bourgh's charming young face and hear her diverse and interesting stories from around the world, and you save up your pennies to throw into wishing wells, hoping against hope that it can send you back here, where your heart really belongs,"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You told me to take a wild guess,"  
  
"There's a new rage sweeping the nation, Bennet, and it's called sarcasm,"  
  
"Really? It's amazing what science can do nowadays. We should be moving on to irony next."  
  
"They're the same thing,"  
  
"No they aren't!"  
  
"Yes they bloody well are. Irony and sarcasm are the same thing,"  
  
"Not exactly, el capitain. There are different types of irony. Irony of situation, dramatic irony, verbal irony, and the like. Only verbal irony is classified as sarcasm."  
  
Score one for the Liz-Mastah.  
  
"It means the same basic thing. Irony, the way we're speaking of it, as in verbally, is the same thing as sarcasm,"  
  
"You didn't specify verbal or situational,"  
  
"You haven't matured since you were five,"  
  
"And you know so well, Mr. All Grown up? When when I was five did you meet me?"  
  
"'When did you meet me when I was five?' "  
  
"You didn't,"  
  
"No, what I'm saying is, your sentence structure was all funny. What you said- When when I was five did you meet me- is crap. What you, as an English major, should know, is that your sentence SHOULD have been structured like this: When did you meet me when I was five. You know, Passive Voice and all that."  
  
"How do you know I'm an English major?"  
  
"From Charlie," he said offhand.  
  
"Jen probably told him that," I said in perfect Active Voice.  
  
He stiffened in his ass-numbing chair.  
  
"Yes, I would imagine so."  
  
Yes, I would imagine so...? Snob. Can't he talk like a normal 23- I'm sorry, twenty-three year old? Did he have to revert to snobby Anglo-sized English? DOESN'T ANYONE SPEAK AMERICAN ANYMORE??????????  
  
Probably right, considering that "American" isn't actually a language, ya dumb twit.  
  
Or maybe it's just that Americans don't speak anyone else's language.  
  
"You're blonde," he said, snapping me out of my reverie.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're blonde. Is that your natural color?"  
  
"Uhhhh... yeah,"  
  
"Funny, I always thought you had brown hair under all that orange,"  
  
And I always though you refrained from assessing your opponent's hair color on the field of verbal battle too, but I guess we all get snapped out our little innocent dreamworlds at some point in our life, now don't we, sunshine?  
  
"Most people do,"  
  
Silence.  
  
Again.  
  
You know that theory that all conversations will eventually turn to discussing breasts? Well, just to let you know, that's total shit. The only way you turn a conversation to breasts is by deliberately bringing up the "Boob Theory" as it is called. And then it's only if you're a horny teenager or a really horny adult. My theory is that in the end, all conversations will turn to silence.  
  
Like now for example.  
  
But yet again, Darcy had to go and be the Big Man, and try to break into my comfortable Not Speaking to Darcy Time.  
  
"It's nice that your friend" (Read: Charlotte) "lives close to her family. Now you and she can visit each other whenever you like."  
  
"Close? It took us eight hours to get here,"  
  
"That's not really all that far away. You, I would think, wouldn't like to live near your family at all, when you get married,"  
  
"When? Ha! You talk like it's a certainty. I probably won't get married,"  
  
"Oh you will. I can tell."  
  
Now there was more silence.  
  
But it wasn't the "I'm ignoring you by staring out the window and hoping against hope that you don't exist," kind of silence.  
  
It was the most uncomfortable kind. Darcy and I locked eyes, and somehow I found it totally impossible to look away.  
  
As I have stated before, they ARE nice eyes. Big, hazel, and deep. But more than that, there was something in them, and in the hint of a smile on his face, that made me curious.  
  
And downright flippin' scared.  
  
I mean, I do NOT look deep into Darcy's eyes. I do NOT get sudden cravings to find out what's in his soul! I do NOT wonder what it would be like if we weren't mortal enemies.  
  
I just don't, okay?  
  
So I pulled my gaze away from his, and re-opened the Classic Literature on my lap, and got very very interested in the daily habits of the garder snake for five solid minutes.  
  
And when I looked up, he was gone.  
  
============================================================================ ============================================================================ ============================================================================ ============================================================================ ===========  
  
A/N: Hey there. Trying to make up my bad author habits little by little. I'm looking for someone interested in beta-reading my story. There are some things that I probably need to work on, and if anyone is willing to (I know it's bloody long), I'd be more than happy.  
  
Tessandra and I are gonna try again with the whole dual person story idea. It's called the Whitehall Chronicles and will be appearing on FictionPress soon. I'll also try really hard to work on the Thieves of Olanee, which I should have done months/years ago. I'm sorry! Anyone who is new to the whole Tessandra/ Brilliant Fool (Aka Moonchild) pairing, our pen name is TessChild and we try our best to work out kick-ass story lines.  
  
For anyone in Canada who reads my story and is familiar with the whole Hate Mail thing from Fox, I am SO sorry that people listen to Hannity and Colmes and also that someone got grilled for speaking his mind about America. It's stupid and I hope it won't prejudice you against Americans, although that is hardly possible sometimes.  
  
Hope you enjoy, and I'll have the chapter we've all been waiting for up soon.  
  
Cheers! 


	24. Ain't That a Kick in the Head

A/n: Here it is guys!

Special Thanks to PenguinsFly73, Jockeykid2, and lizmid, and silversun2005 for beta reading. I think I forgot about one of the people who was supposed to beta read for me, and for that I am SO sorry, I only just realized it now. Forgive me! bows down to the floor, bangs head on tiles as punishment I am SO SO SO SO sorry.

There's not much else I can say, and I won't waste your time talking about useless crap, so here you go!  
  
Ho oh the Wells Fargo Wagon is a comin' to:  
  
Chapter 23: Ain't That a Kick in the Head  
  
The next day, I was out on Charlotte's lawn with Jon (which rhymes), and looking doubtfully at a big lacrosse stick in my hand.  
  
That's right, home viewers, I was being taught how to play lacrosse.  
  
Jon stood about twenty feet away, twirling his stick to keep the ball in the net. (Actually technically, it would be called 'cradling' the stick to keep the ball in the 'pocket', which the guy had told me about a billion times, but since I was doing all in my power to NOT get hit by a solid rubber ball zooming at my face, I didn't take his teaching too much to heart.)  
  
"So after you carried Rowan home, what happened then?" he said, chucking the ball at me.  
  
I'd been telling him my sad, sad history, but I left out the parts with Jen and Charlie. I figured if Jen told other people about my failed relationships, I'd be pissed, so I wouldn't do the same, even if she never got mad.  
  
Which she never does, really.  
  
"Well," I said, catching the little blue ball and then promptly dropping it (I'm hideous horrible crap at sports), "he was so drunk that he couldn't climb the stairs, and I'd be damned if I was gonna carry him up two flights, so I dropped him on the couch and let him sleep it off," I scooped up the ball and flung it back at him, watching in depressed talentless- hackness as he caught it easily and cradled (twirled) it around.  
  
"How was the hangover?" he said, chuckling.  
  
"Probably smaller than he made it out to be. The guy's a lightweight,"  
  
Whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Thock! Went the ball.  
  
"Have you ever met Charlie Bingleton?" I asked. Who knows? If I didn't have to rely on the incredibly biased report of Emma Bingleton, I might actually learn something of some value. I could be the means by which Jen's relationship was saved! They would make me the Maid of Honor at their wedding, and the headline in the paper would read "Brave Younger Sister Saves Sacred Relationship," and get the keys to the city, and parades in my honor, and maybe even a car, or the Care Bears Season Three on DVD. That would be SO cool.  
  
"Nope,"  
  
Well, there goes that idea.  
  
Whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Thock.  
  
"But Will's good friends with him," he said.  
  
Fantastico, Sparky. Tell me something I don't know.  
  
"I met him once," I said, "Nice guy,"  
  
That should have been the end of the conversation. I've met him, he hasn't, and I can't learn a damn thing from him. It's okay.  
  
I'll move on...  
  
But I'm glad it wasn't.  
  
"Will's had to protect Charlie a couple of times, I've heard,"  
  
Whhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Thock. Bounce. Bounce.  
  
I told you I suck.  
  
Whhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Thock.  
  
"Why would he need protection? He's a big boy,"  
  
"Well, the way Will tells it, he seems to have saved Charlie from a phony relationship with some blonde chick,"  
  
Whhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. WHACK!  
  
I hadn't put my stick up in time, and the solid, blue ball hit me square on the forehead.  
  
"Oh my giddy aunt, Lizzy! Are you all right?" He ran over to where I, in my ethereal grace and charm, was rubbing my head and swearing under my breath.  
  
Behold the awesome power.  
  
However, I was slightly distracted by the ache in my forehead by two very important things:  
  
One: Jon had said "Oh my giddy aunt," in a non-joking expression of distress. That classifies as the most stereotypical and yet coolest thing anyone has every said to me in a funny foreign accent (minus, of course, absolutely everything my father ever says). Soon I would be asking him to say things like "Power" (PAH) or "Privacy" (PRIH-vacy) and giggling in my oh-so-typical American way.  
  
Two: Jon, in his stereotypical British goodness, had said that Darcy had "Saved Charlie from a phony relationship with some blonde chick." The only blonde "chick" I knew with whom (notice: perfect grammar) Charlie had been in a relationship was (drum roll) Jen.  
  
And knowing that Jen had been devastated when said break up had happened, and knowing (now) that Darcy had been the proverbial Kryptonite to Jen's happiness Superman, I was led to one more conclusion:  
  
Darcy must DIE.  
  
A slow, hideous, horrible painful death, with lots of hot needles and blood- sucking bats and the like. And Chinese Water Torture. Lots and lots of Chinese Water Torture.  
  
"Phony relationship?" I said, my voice cracking suavely. "How could he possibly be in a position to judge in this 'phony relationship'?"  
  
"What?" He was puzzled.  
  
"Will intentionally broke them up because he thought the relationship wasn't real? The only way he could know that was if Charlie himself said it wasn't." I looked at him, now grotesquely eager for the truth. "Did he say he didn't really like her?"  
  
"Umm, well... dammed if I know, Lizzy. But if he didn't like the girl, then it wouldn't have been such a big deal, now would it?"  
  
I stood up, wrapping my arms around myself. That heartless, conceited, pathetic, blind, mentally decayed bastard! That Emotional Fuckwit among Emotional Fuckwits. I would massacre him and every damn thing he held dear.  
  
"Lizzy? Are you okay?" Jon had jumped up beside me, and was looking at me anxiously.  
  
"I don't feel good. I'm sorry. I've got to go lie down," I didn't have the ability to put feeling into my voice. I walked away stiffly, like the wooden doll I had turned into, and brushed him off again when he asked if I was all right.  
  
All right! Bleeding all right!  
  
How in the name of all that is holy, or even slightly holy, could Will Freakin' T. Darcy tell what was right for my sister? How dare he get involved with something that not only did not concern him, but would never concern him! How could he even think it was a fake relationship, when he'd seen them together, talking, laughing, dancing? How could he mistake that look in her eyes for pretense, or greed, or conceit, or whatever the flying flip he had decided it was? How?  
  
He couldn't, that's how. He could have no possible reason to think she wasn't head over heels and heart over mind in love with Charlie Bingleton. He must have seen that look, and been challenged by it; it was new, it was different, and so was she. Jen must have been such an oddity to him that he couldn't stand Charlie being with her. Couldn't bloody fucking bear the idea of having someone who had to work for a living being his best friend's girlfriend. Or wife.  
  
Good God, that look on her face when she realized he wasn't coming back. How could anyone do that, even to a person he hated? I could never forgive him for that.  
  
Never.  
  
Of all the crap I had taken from him. All the insults, the jibes, the embarrassment I had suffered from him, all of that had made me think...know, that he was the worst person I had ever met.  
  
But I had never thought him capable of this. Not once had I (in my brain which was a slow piece of shit most of the time) believe it was possible for him to be this malicious.  
  
To me, maybe, I could understand the sabotage. He hated me; that was fine.  
  
But to Jen? To my best friend, the only one I could tell anything to and have it be considered carefully and taken seriously? To my only sister, who never thought anyone was as bad as they really were? Who only saw the good in everyone? Jen, who, if she knew, would probably forgive him and say that he was a good friend, that he was doing it for Charlie and not because of her?  
  
How could I forgive him?  
  
In the Wide World of Competitive Grudge Holding, it is important to realize that being alone can help to create 1.) devious plans for the destruction of the arch nemesis or 2.) fantasies of devious plans for the destruction of said arch nemesis. Therefore, having no company lets you sink deeper into hate-filled daydreaming.  
  
Unfortunately, I wasn't alone.  
  
I couldn't even pretend that I was alone. Oh no.  
  
Far from it.  
  
I was sitting in a hideously uncomfortable armchair and watching the Great Disappointment pace across the den and back.  
  
Back, forth, back, forth. Almost like a tennis game, except, if at all possible, less interesting.  
  
"Charlotte my dear!" he whinnied up the stairs. "We are going to be late, my God, we're going to be late,"  
  
The poor man was practically hyperventilating with panic at the thought of being even one second late for yet another identical dinner. I thought he would have an apoplectic fit and collapse.  
  
Frankly, I WISHED he would have an apoplectic fit. It would give me some damn quiet for once.  
  
"I'm COMING," said Charlotte, coming down the stairs. It was the first time I had actually seen her talk to Stephen in the entire month I'd been there. Slightly depressing, really, to see the one interaction between a "happily married" couple being angry and impatient.  
  
Almost enough to make you give up hope for true love and all that noise.  
  
"Lizzy, you're not dressed."  
  
Well, I wasn't naked, per say. Actually, I was not at all naked. But I have come to learn in my long, long, life time that there are two versions of saying things: The straightforward ("Lizzy, you're not ready!" Or "Lizzy, you haven't changed for dinner yet,") and the roundabout and figurative ("Lizzy, you're not dressed,").  
  
Damn expressions...Trying to ruin my life, are you?  
  
Yeah, I thought so.  
  
"No, I'm not going."  
  
Shock And Horror. Surprise And Awe. Mouths Hang Open In Wonder If Such A Thing Is Actually Possible.  
  
You would have thought someone had just run over Stephen's favorite Troll Doll or something by the way his bottom lip quivered in disappointment.  
  
"My dear cousin, please reconsider. But... but... she'll be very disappointed and angry if you are not there! What should I tell her?"  
  
To bugger off and never come near me again, the bloody witch?  
  
"To excuse me, but I'm not feeling well and I wouldn't want to puke all over her or anything."  
  
Images raced through my head of Wimpy Weasel actually saying that to Catherine. It would have made me laugh, if it weren't for everything else.  
  
Finally, FINALLY, they left me alone, and I flipped through the pages of the Utter Leigh Stories, and realized they were absolute crap. I couldn't bring myself to throw them away, though. Considering how many hours it had taken to do the damn things, I may as well laminate them for my kids/grandkids/great grandkids.  
  
I sat in the garden for all of five minutes, but I actually had a headache, and the mixture of the sun and the fact that Stephen worked in it turned that little idea sour too.  
  
There was literally nowhere I could go.  
  
So, being creative as always, I sat down in the Torture Chair and wrote music in a notebook. It had been a long time since I had actually written music, and this was full of random key changes and shit chords and pedaling and stuff. Absolute crap, I'm the first one to say it.  
  
But it felt GOOD to just pour out all the crap that was clogging my brain and rearrange it in some order that made sense without making any sense at all. I mean, how many of you will know what the Circle of Fifths is? And how many of you will know the difference between a Picardy Third and a Deceptive Cadance?  
  
Possibly a lot of you.  
  
If you do, you can give yourself a warm pat on the back, but it's not the Meaning of Life or anything, so don't go crazy or anything. I told you I wouldn't tell you the Meaning of Life here.  
  
And all the time that I was writing stuff down, I was hating Darcy less and less. I knew I could never forgive him, that was true, and I knew I would never talk to him again. But, in the small part of me that was like Jen, I was excusing him for trying to help his friend.  
  
And with that other part of me that was totally un-Jenish, I was angry at myself for letting him get away with hurting my sister, and then feeling proud about what he'd done. I was hating him for his arrogance, hating Jon for his ignorance, hating Stephen for his partisanship, hating Charlotte for being married to him, and hating Charlie for letting go of Jen.  
  
But most of all I was hating myself. I knew that if I confronted him about it, I would cry for Jen. I knew that if I yelled at him, I would get so worked up, tears would start to drip down my face. Me, who never cried, who had been tough and scaly and angry all my life. I would cry for my poor, hurt, broken sister.  
  
And I could not, would not, cry in front of Darcy. Never in a million years would I sink to that. Even if it meant never beating the shit out of him for what he'd done, I would never let myself do it.  
  
So I sat there like the coward I was, and doodled down the side of my page, trying to ignore how much I hated myself, and failing miserably.  
  
We all have our talents, I suppose.  
  
Then there came a knock on the door, and in walked the person I least wanted to see without even waiting for a "Yup," or a "Come in."  
  
Large as life and twice as bad, William T. Darcy stood before me, in all his glory.  
  
"Hello, Bennet," he said.  
  
"Hi," was my brilliant, biting remark.  
  
God, I'm good. Can't you just feel my light shining off me? I should run for Mayor.  
  
He started walking around the room, and I got the feeling I was being slowly confined to the middle of the room.  
  
"Sit down, you're making me dizzy."  
  
I still couldn't think straight. I couldn't confront him, or even register that the person I hated was standing in front of me.  
  
He sat down across from me, meeting my eyes for a second.  
  
They were still the same dark hazel eyes I had looked into before. I had disliked them then.  
  
I hated them now.  
  
He broke eye contact first, then got up and paced again.  
  
Jumpy git. If he was going to gloat, he might as bloody well do it.  
  
He was breathing a little harder now, which in my most recent experience is not a good sign in quiet (or no) conversation. Something was up, and unless I was very much mistaken, that something was going to turn out to be the fact that he was a psychopathic duck-lover with a government chip planted in his brain, and any moment he was going to collapse and start twitching violently on the floor, screaming how the world was going to end and prophesizing the return of the Brady Bunch, that family of mutant, brain- sucking monsters.  
  
"I can't keep this up, Lizzy!" Darcy said suddenly, turning to me and running a hand through his hair. "I can't pretend it anymore, no matter how much I fight it. I love you. I do! I can't stop it, and it's killing me. Against all my better judgment and without me even wanting to, I love you. Please, please, I want you let me out of this. Say you'll go out with me. I need you to."  
  
Well, scratch that whole possession idea.  
  
Although how else could anyone (I repeat: ANYONE) explain what the guy had just said to me?  
  
He loved me? LOVED ME?  
  
How was that possible? How was that even probable? How could it bloody fuckin' happen? I mean, he's hated me from the beginning, right from the time he said that...thing... at Netherfield!  
  
We hate each other. We always have. Nothing could change that.  
  
Had I missed something? Had there been anything different in the way he had looked at me any of times he had seen me? At my father's house? At Art Yurgel's party? At Netherfield? No, of course there hadn't been.  
  
Then how could he love me?  
  
But the way he was looking at me, the way his eyes burned into mine, waiting impatiently for my answer, I knew that he did. I knew that, as he said, he needed me to "let him out of it."  
  
He loved against his better judgment. He didn't like me, he just loved me. He didn't want to. He did hate me. He had ruined Jen's life, and my life, and now he was asking me to make life easier for HIM?  
  
Life doesn't work like that, asshole.  
  
No way in hell was I going to "let him out." He deserved every minute of pain he got.  
  
"Please," he said again, more quietly, as if that was going to change my mind.  
  
I had to answer. I had to. Some part of me even WANTED to.  
  
I guess I'm a sicko, too.  
  
"No," I said calmly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me. No. I will not let you out of this. I don't want your love, and you obviously don't want mine. It should end there. I can't go out with you, or whatever it is that you want me to do. This is my final, absolute answer."  
  
His eyes widened, and he paced back to the window.  
  
"That's it? That's your answer? You just brush me off? How can it be that you're so cold?" His voice was staring to sound Scottish again.  
  
"You told me that you loved me against your better judgment!" I said, my voice rising in anger, "You said you don't want to, but it forced itself on you! You act like I'm some horrible disease you need to get rid of, and then you expect me to just fall into your arms when you ask me politely? I don't think so, pally! That's not the way it works in my neck of the woods."  
  
"You think I'm happy you're poor and strange? You think I want to associate with your gold-digger sister and deranged mother? You think I want to love someone who doesn't seem to be going anywhere or doing anything with their life when I could love hundreds of others who have drive and focus, and are from decidedly less bizarre backgrounds?"  
  
Every word he said hit me like a slap to the face. How could anyone be this blatantly snobby, self-centered, and arrogant?  
  
He deserved whatever pain he got.  
  
"Not at all, Mr. Darcy. I'm just glad that you weren't polite or anything when you asked. It might have made me worried about hurting your feelings if you'd been less of a hideous prig. But since you've proved that you'll never change, even when you're trying to be desirable, I don't have to worry about that, now do I? Ever since I first saw you you have been nothing but an arrogant asshole with no thought of anyone but yourself. You ruined my sister's life, who, in case you ever thought about HER feelings before barging in uninvited, loved Charlie more than I have ever seen anyone love anyone before. You have made mine a misery. You've made sure that my friend Fred Wickham, could never go anywhere in his life. He has suffered as much as anyone else because of you!"  
  
At Fred's name, Darcy's head snapped up, and his eyes blazed at me.  
  
"Ha! Fred Wickham's problems were all his own from the beginning," he said bitterly. "He just made them mine."  
  
"That's absolute shit, Darcy. But it doesn't matter. Even if you hadn't done any of it, even if you'd never ruined my sister's life along with my friend's, I wouldn't say yes. There is not a way you could have asked me that would have tempted me to accept. You have given me every reason to hate you, and none to like you. I never want to see you again."  
  
"You can stop there." said Darcy, his voice shaking, "That's enough. I can see that I've wasted my time and yours by coming here. Good bye."  
  
He turned and left, slamming the door behind him so hard, one of the pictures of kittens on the wall fell and broke.  
  
I had just told my worst enemy exactly what I thought about him. Every detail/hint/nuance/overall picture that I despised. I'd won a big battle for the Kingdom of the Tactless.  
  
So why did I feel like crying?


	25. Five Minutes of Shut Up

A/N: Whoa. I'm not used to writing anything like I had to in the last chapter, and it kinda drained me. But here I am again, and I hope you like!  
  
Oh it's a long way to Tiparari...  
  
Chapter Twenty-Four: Five Minutes of Shut-Up  
  
Journal Entry # 300, page 357  
  
I had to dodge to avoid Jon when I got back to Rosings. I didn't want to speak to anyone, but most of all anyone in that house.  
  
And the only person I actually did want to speak to would never listen to me again.  
  
How had things gotten so goddamn ugly? How had I allowed it to turn into a battle of insults and jibes? What was wrong with me that I was twisting this into it being her fault instead of my own?  
  
God, I really was daft.  
  
"...You act like I'm some horrible disease you need to get rid of!" She'd said. I had. It's true. I'd treated her no better than I would have treated the plague, or worse, that oily rodent she calls a cousin. I had talked to her and looked at her as if she didn't matter.  
  
Not to mention the first time I'd seen her. That, I was trying to push to the back of my memory.  
  
Just keep diggin', Willy.  
  
"...Ever since I first saw you, you have been an arrogant asshole with no thought of anyone but yourself..."  
  
Christ, would it never stop? Would I never get rid of her face...and her voice...in my head? The idea that I would spend the rest of my life loving her was now no consolation. It was just a promise of agony every time I thought about it, and going by my track record, that was going to be every five seconds or so.  
  
"...You've made sure that my friend Fred Wickham can't get anywhere in life. He's suffered as much as anyone because of you!"  
  
Fred Wickham. That insolent, arrogant, two-faced bastard. Did she really never see him for what he was? How was that possible?  
  
Well, I thought, getting out a pen and some paper, that's one thing we can remedy, now isn't it?  
  
To Elizabeth Bennet:  
  
Do not be afraid to read this letter. I'm not trying to ask you again. Once was quite enough, thank you. However, there seems to be a rather grotesque misconception of yours in relation to my treatment and alleged abuse toward Fred Wickham. This is the real story, and please do not allow your bias to convince that I am lying. Every word of my story is true as I tell it.  
  
My father's best friend, who also happened to be his steward (a kind of servant), was George Henry Wickham. Growing up, I played with Fred often and he was considered one of my best friends.  
  
Yes, Fred Wickham is indeed Scottish as I am. It seems, however, that he has managed to completely lose his accent, which I must mask to prevent people from asking where I come from in Ireland. I am not Irish; I am Scottish.  
  
When George Wickham died, Fred was twelve, and my father adopted him as a surrogate son. No matter how much I liked Fred, I was getting uneasy around him. At the age of thirteen I could see what my father could not: that Fred was out of control, and needed discipline or a firm lecture to straighten him out. Well, I was only thirteen. When I went off to school, Fred went with me as my roommate. In that room I witnessed what he really was.  
  
By the age of fourteen he was a lush; by fifteen he was a "pimp" I think you call it here. By sixteen he had dated and seduced over twenty- three women. Most of these encounters happened in my room, and I was forced to go elsewhere to do my work. Two of these women were teachers; the rest students like us, but all were older.  
  
At seventeen, apparently bored with what he deemed a "colossal waste of time and energy," he left school and went back to Pemberley to ingratiate himself on my father once more. I myself graduated from school, and then went home to find all of the proceedings and things that should have been my father's concern being taken care of by Fred.  
  
When I say 'taken care of' I mean it in the loosest of terms. My father, bedridden with an illness that had not been even mentioned to me in the past two years, had left all the work of running the house and the area around it to Wickham, who abused his foster father's trust by throwing parties, spending money at exorbitant rates, ignoring the upkeep of the house, and abusing the servants, who are like family to me.  
  
My sister at that time was away at school. Perhaps if she had been home at that time, she would have realized what he was at the beginning. Or maybe what happened would have been worse- I have no idea.  
However, on my return from school, I took back my father's house and tried yet again to talk sense to Fred. I still believed that I could make him see that what he was doing was wrong by talking to him. I was foolish and naïve, I will admit it.  
  
My father, still bedridden, was angry at my treatment of Fred, and refused to speak to me about it up to the day he died. Fred, who had never spared time to visit his surrogate father more than once a week while I was away, saw him nearly every day towards the end, something I envied him for greatly. Whenever I could I stopped to see him, and yet every time he looked at me, I could tell he was thinking about what Fred had told him about me. Apparently I was now the wild one, instead of Fred. I was the womanizer, the cheat, the fake. I was not the son my father had raised. My own father, with whom I had spent the better half of my childhood, with whom I had once been friends, now believed that I was the kind of person he had always despised: a wealthy man with no interest in bettering the world around him.  
  
Wickham had expressed interest in becoming a minister, and attending Theology School. To do this, of course, he needed money, and my father and I were the only way he could get it. When my father died, he left Fred enough money to live through two years of Theology School without having to work. He left it in cash, something so unforgivably foolish that I still wonder why I didn't just give Wickham a life-time supply of beer and women and nice clothes. Dad had bought him that.  
  
When Fred left, his wallet significantly heavier, he quite obviously intended to never come back. But he wagered wrong on how long his money would last him. What with gambling debts, police fines, the actual fact of needing food and a place to sleep, he ran out of the money in less than a year. He came back to Pemberley expecting some sympathy for his disheveled appearance and plea for help. If I had actually been there, he would have gotten none.  
  
But I was not there, something for which I can never forgive myself.  
  
But my sister, Georgiana, who was then fourteen, was. You know Wickham, and you know how charming he can be. It would be easier, he decided, to make her fall in love with him and marry her for her money than it would be to squeeze it out of me. He was right. Georgiana loves everyone and everything, and it was only too easy for Fred to convince her that he loved her back, despite their age difference.  
  
It was only the last scraps of my dumb luck that let me come back in time. Fred, who had gotten a friend of his as minister to serve the wedding, was about to make his plans final when I arrived. Georgiana, not knowing that she had done anything wrong or self-endangering, told me everything about her plan. She expected me to be happy for her.  
  
I don't need to tell you that I sent Wickham away with no money and no fourteen-year-old wife. Georgie stayed with me, learned how to run Pemberley while I was gone, and learned how to protect herself from Wickham if he turned up again.  
  
I left her only after being begged by Charlie for months on end to come and keep him company. I am painfully aware every day of how long I've left her alone, and the only consolation I have is that I know that Fred is here in America, not back in Scotland.  
  
This is a true and completely unembroidered account, and I hope you will take my word (as useless as that is to you) on that.  
  
As to your other accusations about my splitting Charlie away from your sister, I cannot defend myself because they are true. But I know what I did was right. I never saw her look more than mildly interested in anything he ever had to say. She didn't love him.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
William Darcy

* * *

My eyes aching, I put the letter down. Even in my third time reading it, it made absolutely no sense.  
  
Why the hell would he bother to tell me about his sister and Wickham? To 'save' me from him? To convince me that he was actually right about something?  
  
But why would he bother? If he hadn't hated me before, he damn well hated me now, after... everything.  
  
Why not just let me run into Fred's arms or whatever he thought I would do next? It would be too easy for him to do so.  
  
Maybe he just had this weird "protecting people" thing. I mean, he hadn't protected Georgiana that well, and so he made it his business what Jen felt about Charlie. HE just didn't want her marrying him for money.  
  
_Asshole_, I thought dispiritedly. He just projected his own fears onto the motives of other people. Jen was just serene, that was all. Emotional fuckwit.  
  
But insulting him, even in my head, where everything sounded better than it actually did out in real life, just wasn't satisfying. He wasn't just Darcy anymore. No matter how much I disliked him, I couldn't HATE him.  
  
He was human.  
  
Dammit.  
  
I was supposed to hate him. I had spent the better part of a year hating him. It had been one of my better pastimes.  
  
I mean, chess club, total bust (why in God's name can you only move certain pieces certain places? I know it was the "rules of the game," as Dad tried to tell me, but why shouldn't pawns move the same distance as knights or queens? Why did it have to be ruled by a frigging feudal system? Checkers were better. At least in checkers, any player could become king, gol darnit). I don't even know what the SAC stood for, or why I was in the picture for their club, and frankly, I'm happier not knowing. The extra classes in school were so boring I had to prop my head up on (unsharpened) pencils to keep it from whacking into my desk and giving me a concussion. I had stopped playing the piano after Mom had pedaled me to every "high class" school and/or agent around like I was some piece of meat. It hadn't been something I'd wanted to do for a long time.  
  
But hating Darcy...that was something that came naturally to me, like breathing, or vandalizing school property with doodles, or watching Looney Tunes. It had been so easy to do it when he had been Mr. Plank of Wood, or Mr. Stick Shoved Up Bum, or Mr. Spoiled Rich Snob Who Just So Happens To Have An Unfairly Cool Car. But now he wasn't a title at all, he was person.  
  
Which didn't make my life any easier, or more enjoyable. It made it harder, mostly because I had been all warm and fuzzy in my cozy proverbial cloak of literal hate.  
  
I tried to figure it out during dinner ("Elizabeth, you have not commented on the soup! I always thought that this soup is the very best. Of course I would have NOTHING BUT the best in my house, as Mrs. Sherman-Wood down the road was only so good to tell me. Mrs. De Bourgh, she said, you have NOTHING BUT the best here, and she was right".)  
  
I tried to figure it out during Sit Around And Listen To Old Bat Speak To Herself Hour. ("Elizabeth Bennet, I daresay you are not concentrating on the conversation! Perhaps it is because my dear, dear nephews have left. Things aren't so interesting now, are they?")  
  
Stupid cow. She made it sound like I wanted Darcy's money too. At least the proverbial fuzzy Cloak of Hate I had for Darcy had been layered with the slightly less warm and fuzzy Windbreaker of Hate I had for Catherine.  
  
But the Darcys had left. I hadn't even gone down to say goodbye. I pretended I was asleep each of the six times Charlotte came to tell me they were there.  
  
And now, thank GOD, I was leaving too.  
  
You know how crappy it was at Netherfield with Pie-Face Emma and Sarah the Spaz hanging around. You know how glad I was to leave there.  
  
This relief was ten times better. I had stayed there for longer than anyone should ever stay there. The place had this aura of doom, like the Gates of Hell, or that Department of Mysteries thingy in Harry Potter. If you want to feel like all of the happiness you've ever known is being ripped out of you in chunks, looked at, then thrown away, I urge you to try Rosings Park for a day.  
  
Catherine works better than any friggin' dementor I know.  
  
Not that I know any, really.  
  
Just a figure of...  
  
Never mind.  
  
Catherine looked slightly miffed when I told her I was going. For someone who enjoyed criticizing and patronizing everything I did, she sure as hell was sorry to see me go. But I had fulfilled my promise and seen Charlotte, and that was enough.  
  
We both knew I was never going back there again.  
  
So I climbed into the car Mr. Young had left for my return trip (he'd left days before with Maria), looking back at the Party who had come to say goodbye.  
  
Catherine de Bourgh, of course, had not deigned to come.  
  
I said goodbye as fast as I could, which meant that sometimes I said like "Guh-bye" or "goo-Bye," or even, in my coolest moment ever, "Goob."  
  
Then I climbed into the front seat (Feeling of POWER!!!!!) and drove off, not looking back.  
  
When I left Netherfield, I had shouted with joy. Now, I could barely even manage a giggle. Too much had changed.  
  
And the whole way home, the letter burned (figuratively) inside my pocket.

* * *

A/N: Hey guys. Few quick things: first, thanks to all of you who haven't dropped this story in disgust at my bad updating reflexes. I'm trying really hard now to be good, I swear! Second, in a moment of repeated stupidity, I changed Charlotte's father's last name to Lucas, the way it is in P&P. However, for those of you who are familiar with my Prologue (and you all are of course...), her name is actually Charlotte Young, making her dad Mr. Young. I changed it back in this chapter, and will changed it finally when I edit all the chapters at the end (sniff). For now, sorry for all the confusion if there was any. Have fun! (see Natty? I didn't beg them for reviews! Mleh)


	26. Will You, Won't You, Will You, Won't You...

A/N: Hey guys!  
  
Okay, about the whole Wickham/ Georgiana thing, which obviously was unbelievable/ out-of-place to come of you.  
  
Yes, marriage to someone under 18 requires consent (and signature) by legal guardian. This can be avoided, however, by registering either under a false name, or by registering as 18 years of age. In the end, it doesn't matter if you are found out. Technically you're married by state/ crown registry, and that's that. People HAVE gotten married under 18 to someone much older, as in Aaliyah and her manager when she was 15 (to bring in American Pop-culture, I'm so sorry). The fact that Fred got a friend of his to perform the ceremony also rules out the interjection of the clergy/ town official.  
  
As to Georgiana, well, it's easy when you're young to imagine people are in love with you. And generally, if someone you trust who is also older than you tells you it's all right, then you tend to believe it, even for a short time, which was all Fred really needed. I know that it seems for unbelievable now then it would have when Jane Austen wrote the book, but Georgiana was only a year older in that book, and it was still shockingly young.  
  
Hope I haven't talked you all to death.  
  
Give 'er the gas again, Clem, we're headin' for  
  
Chapter Twenty-Five: Will You, Won't You, Will You, Won't You, Won't You Join The Dance  
  
"He said what?" Jen asked, staring at me.  
  
"Yep. Hard to believe, innit?" I lolled on my bed, sipping a glass of vodka. Jen was sprawled out on the floor reading a girly mag (I mean seriously people, YM? Seventeen? Who reads Seventeen when you're twenty-five? Hell, I didn't read Seventeen when I WAS seventeen. "How to Tell if He Likes You" an important article my ass). She looked up at me incredulously.  
  
"He loves you? But... but Lizzy... he never even talked to you more than once. Even then, he was wasn't he?"  
  
I grimaced. "No, we spoke a few times. I asked him to give me ride a to Dad's- "  
  
"What??"  
  
"- And then there was all that time at Rosings and everything. Complete hell, I'm telling you," I said, catching her look of sympathy.  
  
"Maybe he really does love you, then. It's not possible for someone to make up something like that."  
  
I was getting pretty good at grimacing by now. The real trick is to pull up one corner of your mouth and look as doubtful/in pain/ mortally wounded as possible. Try it on your friends, it works wonders.  
  
"But you read what he said about Fred," I said.  
  
Four internal rhymes. Doncha just love it?  
  
Completely unintentional too.  
  
I kick ass.  
  
"Yeah... but we both know Fred, and I can't believe he would do something like that, especially to a fourteen-year-old girl. It can't be true!"  
  
I took a sip of vodka again, pursing my lips. "But why would he make something like that up? I mean, it's his sister. Why would you make up a story like that about your sister?"  
  
"Then it has to be true," said Jen, confused. "But maybe he's sorry about what he did. Maybe he really regrets it! He could be trying to change his life and now we're sitting around judging him. He always looked so honest..."  
  
I smiled, kicking my shoes off my bed and wiggling my toes in my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles socks.  
  
"I think that one of them is the honest one and the other one just pretends to be. You can't have them both be good, redeemable people at the same time, your head will explode if you try."  
  
"Whose head's gonna explode?" Rowan asked, coming in and sitting on my knees.  
  
"Yours if you break my shins, fatty," I snarled, putting down my glass and hitting him with my stuffed monkey, named Monkey. Yes, I was a very imaginative child.  
  
Row's scream of pain (purely pretend, let me assure you. I only truly kick his ass once a month, and I wasn't in the mood that day) brought Kat and Lydia running into the room, screaming war cries.  
  
"FREEEEDOM!!!!!!"  
  
All in all, I was never happier to be home.

* * *

"Howlonghasitbeensincewe'vehadapartyomigodIloveitheresomuchlookatallthehotguys!"  
  
Yes, there is only one environment in which the Mary truly thrives. See how she shakes her hair in order to attract a mate? Indeed, the "party" is the only wilderness known to house full, healthy, and happy Marys.  
  
Crikey, what a beauty!  
  
Now, you might be asking the question, "How many damn parties does this girl go to? Why isn't she at home resting/writing her English paper/ sitting on a couch in a drunken stupor watching the Teletubbies? What is wrong with the world that she feels the need to go to every stupid party every pimply drunk freshman decides to throw?  
  
Believe me, old sport, I've asked myself the same question.  
  
Unfortunately for me, in the midst of my deep personal journey, I was knocked off my feet by yet another world-altering round of guy-girl chicken fighting.  
  
But I didn't hit the ground with a thud. Nor with a whack, smack, slam, or crash. Not even a plop was managed.  
  
It's my Super Levitation Power that does it, I'm tellin' ya.  
  
Well, it would have been, if I had actually had the chance to hit the floor.  
  
But no. I was caught around the waist by the Second Most Unwanted Person at the Moment, Fred Wickham.  
  
Yes, indeed ladies and germs, things _do_ get worse.  
  
"Hey Lizzy, what's up?" he said, his arms still around me, the two-faced, lecherous bastard...  
  
Not that I'm biased or anything.  
  
What would you say to that? I mean, I'm a damn good liar (Once I told my Home Ec teacher that I was mortally ill to get out of a test and she believed me. That is, until she called my mother and I was grounded for five days during which as an extra punishment I had to massage my Aunt Myrtle's feet every night for an hour each. It wasn't really worth it in the long run, but who gives tests in Home Ec?), but scamming on a fourteen- year-old when you're over sixteen is kinda gross. Scamming on a fourteen- year-old when you're over twenty is just plain creepy.  
  
Should I tell him I knew? Had Darcy given me permission, in telling me the whole story, to tell it to other people? I could use it to beat the shit out of him socially, but should I? Unless he started hitting on my friends or other rich little kids, I should stay out of it and watch him like a hawk. Darcy probably didn't want the whole Wickham-Georgiana thing to get spread around, he tried hard enough to protect her as it was.  
  
So there was really nothing I could say but, "Eh, not much. You?"  
  
"Same here."  
  
There was silence as I sipped my drink (yet again vodka) and he studied his shoes. They WERE nice, I have to give him that.  
  
"So...um...you broke up with what's her face?" I said, trying not to sound too interested. Before it had been because I was interested. Now it was because I wanted him to leave me alone.  
  
But we all know how my career as master tactician turned out, now don't we?  
  
His eyes lit up, and he stepped a wee (heehee) bit closer.  
  
"Yeah, there wasn't much we had in common anymore."  
  
Prick. I bet she just didn't have as much money as he wanted her to.  
  
"That's a cryin' shame," I said, stupidly.  
  
Lizzy's Lesson in Polite Conversation:  
  
Rule One: Never imply interest in someone you are uninterested in. If too much hugging, squeezing, touching, blinking, or repetitions of generic pet names (ex. Sweety, sugar, pumpkin, honey, hon, dear, or darling) gives the wrong impression, and could rebound in ways you don't like.  
  
Rule Two (almost as important as Rule One): Never EVER sound sarcastic in a situation where condolences are to be given. This could have one of two results: First, the recipient to takes offense and hates you/hits you/never speaks to you again. Secondly, the person takes said sarcastic condolence and misconstrues it as your interest in them. This happens especially when the second party a.) had too much to drink, or b.) has interest in you dating back to previous times.  
  
Rule Two is the reason why my comment was not well timed/placed.  
  
"Yes, well, actually there is someone I'm interested in now. She's really the reason we broke up."  
  
A tad bit hasty are we?  
  
Je pense que ça.  
  
Pienso tan.  
  
Penso così.  
  
Ich denke, daß dieses zutreffend ist.  
  
Ik denk zo.  
  
I think so. (Multi lingual, that's me!)  
  
"Oh?" I said, taking a long drink, giving him enough time to get uncomfortable.  
  
"Yeah. Too bad we're leaving tomorrow, or I'd try to get her." He rocked forward a little on his toes like he was a kid who couldn't wait to play with a new toy.  
  
Scuzzy monkey! How much subtle verbal pounding do I have to throw at you before you realize I don't like you?  
  
"Yeah, pity," I said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. "You know where you're going?"  
  
"Fitchburg I think."  
  
Ha, Fitchburg. That'll be a fun place to spend the rest of your summer. Serves ya right, you scuzzbag.  
  
"Hmm." I was getting good at this "Don't say what you mean" thing. Hopefully it would all be over soon and I could go back to sitting in my corner and playing clock solitaire again.  
  
"I heard you saw Will Darcy when you visited Char," he said, and I got the feeling he was using a subtle version of the Jedi Mind Trick on me, trying to get me to say something revealing.  
  
Unfortunately for you, puny mortal, I am skilled in the arts of concealment. Your Jedi Mind games mean nothing to me! Muwaahahahahahahaaa!  
  
All right, maybe just a smidgeon of my childhood had been spent watching the Star Wars movies. But since they had turned me into the well-rounded person I am today, there must be something good about knowing the entire untold "backstory" right?  
  
Maybe not.  
  
And how DARE he call her "Char" like she was HIS best friend too! I mean, not that I had all that much in common with her anymore after she married the Stoat of the Century, but still she was MY friend, and he wasn't.  
  
Yes, I am slightly possessive.  
  
"Oh, Darcy? Yeah, I saw him,"  
  
Look around. Sip. Smile. Sip.  
  
It was getting to be a kind of twisted dance.  
  
Too bad I suck at dancing.  
  
"Was he as bad as ever? You poor girl, how did you survive it?" He moved to grasp my hand, but I used it to examine a speck floating in my glass.  
  
Graceful and hygienic, that's me.  
  
"Nah, not really. I mean, he seems like a real asshole and everything at the beginning," I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, "but after you talk to him he gets a lot better."  
  
His smile faltered a little. "Really? That's new and different. Maybe he's matured a little since the last time I talked to him."  
  
Matured... If there ever was anyone who should NOT criticize people on their immaturity, it was Mr. I -Think- I'll- Do- Something -Totally- Illegal- And- Try- To- Seduce- A- Fourteen- Year- Old- Girl- For- Her- Millions/Billions- of- Dollars- Fred Wickham. Like Darcy doesn't have enough maturity to think for himself and to try to protect everyone around him.  
  
People suck.  
  
"Oh yeah. Too bad you're going to Fitchburg, or I'd try to invite him here for awhile. But he's going back to Scotland, you're off with your army, and I'm going to Europe with my aunt and uncle, so there's not a whole lot we can do to fix things now is there?"  
  
"Oh."  
  
And there the dance ended

* * *

I lay awake in bed that night, something which I don't normally do. I mean, if I'm awake, I'm awake, and I'm not lying on my back looking at the cracks in my ceiling. If I'm asleep, not a lot (besides Mary) can wake me up.

Even in the half-drunken stupor I was in that night, I was still morally confused.

Damn morals. Damn ethics. They're not supposed to be THIS confusing, are they? I mean, something's either right or wrong, but not both, and not neither. It's one way or the other.

But not this.

Should I tell everyone I know to be careful around Wickham? If I sounded like I had a good reason for it, people would want to know why, and then I'd have to tell them. But if I told them, would I be violating whatever trust Darcy still had in me to keep his secret? He hadn't told anyone, so why should I?

But what if I didn't tell, and something bad happened to someone I knew? Or even someone I didn't? How could I live with that? Would it be possible to keep people away without looking like I was keeping people away?

And then there was Jen. What could I tell her about Charlie? Could I say anything? I didn't want her to hate Darcy, because however stupid his theories were his reasons behind him were straightforward and well-meaning. If I told her, would it make her feel better or worse?

Shit, some questions are so freakin' hard to answer.

Rhetorical questions suck, my friends. I think they should be banned from everyday society.

So I rolled over and went to sleep, and dreamed about all the things I knew, and of all the things I would never tell.


	27. Oh, The Teenage Angst

* * *

A/N: Roundin' the corner here guys, and here's where it gets ugly. Thanks, as always, to my lovely, talented, grammar-conscious beta-readers. I may not always follow their advice, but nine times out of ten, they're absolutely right. You rock!  
  
Walk with me, little girl don't you be afraid, to:  
  
Chapter Twenty-Six: Oh the Teenage Angst  
  
"But I HAVE to go!" Lydia said, again. She had been saying the exact same thing at varying degrees of Loud and Obnoxious for about three days.  
  
"Why Fitchburg?" Rowan said, stuffing his face with my last box of Cinnamon Life.  
  
Pig.  
  
"Because that's where Denny and his unit are! I've GOTTA go, Rowan!"  
  
"Ask someone else to drive you, I don't have the time," he said, knowing that in his current state of Whipped he wouldn't be able to say "no" to any of us for longer than five minutes.  
  
"I HAVE, and they SUCK! Lizzy's being SUCH a bitch, she says she doesn't trust me anywhere NEAR that place!"  
  
"Damn straight, shorty," I said, propping my feet on the chair next to me. "An entire camp of soldiers, i.e. mostly GUYS in uniform, is not a good place for you. You'd be better off spending your vacation in Paris with your parents or something fun."  
  
"But it IS fun! It WILL be fun!"  
  
"You're fifteen, Lyd! You don't know what you could be walking into, and none of us can go with you! I know what could happen in a month and a half."  
  
"Since when did you hate me enough to think that I'd actually DO something with any of them? I want to go and spend the summer with my friends in Fitchburg and hang out with the guys! You're just punishing me because you can't follow Fred Wickham yourself!"  
  
"The day I follow Fred Wickham will be the day I go get a manicure with my mom! No one here has agreed to drive you to Fitchburg, you hate public transportation, and you sure as hell can't walk there, so you better just settle down and spend the rest of your summer doing something else. Trust me; the regiment isn't as ass-kicking as you make it sound."  
  
She had lines of mascara running down her face by now, but she sniffed dramatically, and in full Angsty-Teen-Movie-Mode, said, "What happened to you? You used to be cool!" And stomped up the stairs to her room.  
  
"I used to be innocent, too." I said.  
  
"Why don't you want her to go? It's not like you were ever into that parental 'I told you so' shit before," said Rowan, missing his mouth with the cereal yet again.  
  
"It's just a bad idea for her to go anywhere near that place. It's not safe for her."  
  
"Safety? Miss I-Think-I'll-Dive-From-A-Moving-Car is talking about safety?"  
  
"Hey, that only happened once, and there were extenuating circumstances the like of which man has never seen. But this is a different kind of dangerous. She's a young, attractive, and obviously rich kid who'd believe her goldfish was a dog if you were hot enough. Alone and unrestrained, she's the worst candidate for Summer Responsibility Queen ever."  
  
Making a goddamn promise of silence is crippling! I had agreed with Jen not to talk about Darcy's sister, but that meant not telling my friends the reason I was against stuff happening with Wickham. Little ol' me, not exactly the eloquent crowd-coaxer, couldn't handle letting things slide, but alternately I couldn't persuade them to listen to me without evidentiary proof.  
  
Screw this. Some promises were meant to be broken, dammit.  
  
"Rowan, the real reason I don't want her to go is---"  
  
No, no. Can't do it. He told me in a letter explaining himself to me. Not to anyone I feel like telling.  
  
"Ummm..."  
  
"I just don't trust her."  
  
"Well, that was new and different."  
  
I would just have to find a way to convince them without mentioning Wickham.  
  
"Look, you trust my judgment on people, right?"  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"Just say yes, Rowan, this is the meaningful, pleading part of my conversation in which you listen to what I say and agree totally with me."  
  
"Okay...yes. Yes, I trust your judgment with people."  
  
"Good boy. Then trust me with this: Lydia is not ready for what's going to happen to her. She won't be able to handle it. Please just listen to me."  
  
There was a silence in which Rowan looked at me, and I glared in my oh-so- persuasive way back at him.  
  
"Can...can this be the part of the conversation where it ends?" he said, hopefully.  
  
"Fine."  
  
But three days later, I was watching them pull out of the driveway, headed to Fitchburg.  
  
Well, actually, Rowan was driving toward Concord because he's a directionally challenged butt-head, but for all intents and purposes, they were going to Fitchburg, where the new recipient of the Worst Person Ever Award lay waiting for a little rich girl to shack up with.  
  
Dramatic much?  
  
But later, when I realized that I had been right all along, I wouldn't even get a chance to be satisfied at such a rare thing.  
  
I'd be spending most of my time having fun and being absolutely ashamed of myself.

* * *

"And to your left we have the magnificent wilderness for which Scotland is known, but unfortunately we don't have enough time for you to enjoy it because we are a demon tour company that can make anything and everything three times more boring than it should be," I translated for Eddie and Rachel, embroidering a bit for their entertainment.  
  
Where are you that you need a translator, you might ask?  
  
Well, I'll tell you, you starry-eyed young 'uns.  
  
Scotland.  
  
Like most Americans, my uncle and aunt had trouble understanding what the hell anyone was saying, so I, Lizzy Bennet, Translator Extraordinaire and Protector of Small Children and Cute, Furry Animals, had to go in and make things understandable.  
  
It's really all thanks to my father, you know. His thick County Kerry accent made it easy for me to understand what the people in Stirling were saying.  
  
Just one of the reason my father rocks, let me tell you.  
  
The reason we were even on a tour is that my aunt Rachel has this idea that the way you get to know a place is by driving through it in a big-ass bus while being told useless tidbits about it by an emotionally repressed tour guide in a visor.  
  
Note to world travelers: This is a Bad Idea. Tours are, in the general 80% of the time, boring and uneducational in the extreme. I only have to look back on the time I went to see some former president's house and ended up spending half an hour hearing about the historical importance of the megaphone in the corner.  
  
Watch, as I contain my excitement.  
  
Now, I know what you guys are thinking. You're asking me, "Jeepers, Lizzy, weren't you awful scared you'd meet Darcy somewhere in Scotland?"  
  
And to that, I would have to say, "No, kids. You see, Scotland is a large country spanning about 77,097 sqaure kilometers (crazy Europeans with their kilometers...). What were the actual chances that I would turn a corner and see anything involving Darcy on a half-baked bus tour of the Southern Highlands?"  
  
"An' aroon' th'corner ye'll see th'ancaestral hohm a' th' Darcy fahmly, Peemberley, where..."  
  
"What?" said Eddie.  
  
"What?" said Rachel.  
  
"WHAT???" said I.  
  
"Lizzy, I thought you could understand what he was saying," Eddie said grumpily, obviously angry at not being the manly, sophisticated man who could be a hero and translate for two confused women on the ever-so- glamorous Highland Experience tour line.  
  
Baby.  
  
"I can," I said, "that's why I can't bloody believe it." I pointed to the corner around which my doom was sealed. "The next thing we're going to see is Will Darcy's house."  
  
"Oh," said my aunt.  
  
"Is that bad?" said Eddie.

* * *

My life officially blows, my friends. I mean, everything up to now: BAD. But to add one more layer on the proverbial cake of emotional pain is just another reminder that, indeed, God hates me.  
  
The Corner of Doom was rounded, and I had seen the most beautiful house in existence. Nothing ostentatious, nothing Hollywood. It was really just an ancestral manor set on a hill, with gate and a low wall separating it from the outside world. The grass was green, the trees were lush, and the lake at one end had lily-pads and weeping willows.  
  
It was PERFECTION, in just about every way possible.  
  
But there was one tiny, relatively unimportant thing that complicated it: William T. Darcy, the one person I was heinously confused about, lived there.  
  
Me, I don't like being confused about anything. Maybe about a rhetorical question, may they be banned forever from this earth, but not about people. It's a black-and-white deal. I like them or I don't, and that's just the way it's gotta be, consarn it.  
  
But Darcy? He confused me to no end, and that pissed me off.  
  
And now I had seen where he lived, and the little house of I-Don't-Give-A- Damn-Because-I'll-Never-See-Him-Again that I had been trying to rebuild for the past three weeks came crumbling down like a wet cookie, or something else that crumbles in a sad, dramatic style when filmed in slow motion.  
  
Dammit, why did his house have to be so damn pretty? Couldn't he have the gold-leaf pillars the Bingleton sisters had decided were necessary at Netherfield? Couldn't he have a thousand-room mansion in Miami and a high- grade personal security system with guard dogs and razor wire?  
  
Why did his house have to be exactly what I'd pictured when I thought about my dream house? Why-  
  
"Um, Lizzy? We're getting off now," Rachel said, poking me for the fifth time in the ribs.  
  
"What? We're taking a TOUR of Pemberley?"  
  
"Duh, kid."  
  
Yes, indeed, God does hate me.  
  
A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long/sucked as much as I think it did. I have major writer's block once again. Plus have been busy with summer job/play and stuff. I know, I know, I'll work harder next time.  
  
I just turned sixteen!!! YAY!!! Now I could get my learner's permit if my damn twin brother could decide on a day to go do it, but it's probably a good thing he doesn't have one...my dad took him for a driving lesson, and he ran over a tree. Yep. A tree.  
  
I promise the next chapter will be better and sooner, and I want to thank my beta-readers, who yet again are grammatical goddesses and are extremely patient with me and my laziness. 


	28. Do the Monkey Monkey Monkey

Let there be rain in:

Chapter 27: Do the Monkey (Monkey, Monkey)

And so the cycle of life continues. Yet again, dear viewers, our spunky heroine is thrown into majorly uncomfortable/ embarrassing/ego-threatening situations, and yet again she must prove her worth by escaping from the jaws of death. Does she have what it takes to survive? Or will she fail both her cause and herself in the process?

If my life were a teenage girl series, that would be the paragraph on the back.

Unfortunately, my life doesn't work like a girly book where every "dire" situation ends up being solved by the lead character with the help of Love Interest Man and Random Sidekick(s) Met Along The Way.

I was stuck on a tour of Will Darcy's house. No one was in a position to help me, especially not the tour guide, who waved her visor at me in an effort to shoo me out of the bus, telling me for the seventh time to "have a look 'round."

I'm getting the impression that no one understands me.

Depressing.

As I hopped (fell) off the bus, I saw the Highland Experience Gang clustered around a little old lady with enormous eyes magnified by slightly more enormous glasses. I stood in the back, trying to salvage what dignity I had left by playing it cool and confident, and noticing at that strategically placed bad time that both my shoes were untied.

I think disaster has a thing for me.

Lost as I was in my own above-ground-pool-sized ocean of self-pity, I almost missed what Little Old Lady was saying.

"Welcome, my friends, come one and come all,

To Historic Old Pemberly Manse,

Come in, stay awhile, in our beautiful hall,

You'll find more than you did at first glance."

I blinked. I blinked again. And one more time for good luck. She was speaking in verse.

I looked around the at the other people thirsting for the Highland Experience in case I was not going insane and they thought it was ever-so-slightly creepy, but no one else batted an eyelash.

"My name is Old Sally, born a Macloed,

I both live here and manage the grounds,

My forefathers all this sweet soil have ploughed,

And I know in each detail its bounds."

And with a shake of her head, she turned and lead us up to the front steps of the most beautiful house in the world, trailing behind her a chain of cooing tourists snapping pictures of everything in sight.

Just what the hell was going on anyway?

* * *

_Journal Entry #, page 763_

_God help me, I'm a useless fool. I sat the entire dedication ceremony that was supposed to honor me for the contribution of a school library in Perth and thought about her. I shook hands with the senior members of this council and the head commission of whatever and smiled blandly, and remembered her smile. I walked down the road with smiling kids, treated them with ice cream, sixty-seven of them, and not once did I feel like the better person I was trying to be._

_I felt awful._

_I mean, saying what I think is one thing, I do it all the time and relatively no harm comes of it. But saying whatever I feel, spouting it out just because of my pent-up frustrations on a lot of different subjects, turning them all into the hateful soup of bitterness only I seem to be able to make, and the world, my world, comes crashing down around me._

_How poetic of you, Willy-me-boy._

_I drove my bike down the lane, revving the engine in an attempt to get at least some satisfaction in making a lot of noise._

_Well, I am still young, aren't I? Can't I have fun once in a while?_

_But then I thought back to what was following a day behind me, and I realized that I couldn't. Not that I am incapable of enjoying myself when Charlie and Georgiana are there, far from it. They have been the best times of my life. But to bring Emma and Sara and her damn husband What's-His-Name too, in order to "cheer me the hell up," in Charlie's words was not my idea of a good time._

_No offense to Charlie, but the wingeing, shrieking, flirting, cajoling harpy he calls his sister would never ever make me forget the real woman I had lost._

_Thank God I would get a day to myself before the Stampede arrived._

* * *

"Rachel."

No answer.

"Rachel!"

"What?"

"You know the tour guide?"

"Yeah...."

"You know how she rhymes?"

"Yeah...."

"Don't you think that's the slightest bit weird?"

"Eh, it's part of the Highland Experience, I guess."

"Not everyone from Scotland rhymes when they speak, Rache. In fact, I can bet a good ninety-nine-point-nine-percent don't. Isn't this whole We're In Darcy's House thing wiggin' you out?"

"Number one, 'wigging' is reserved for the early '90's, never again. Number Two, it's all a gimmick for the dumb American tourists. I bet they have little jokes like this all the time to show each other how much crap we'll take for real."

"I don't want to be a stupid American tourist, Rachel, and I don't want to be here."

"Tough cookies, my whiny Bostonian friend."

We looked around at the house, which was just as beautiful on the inside as its exterior had promised.

Which made it one hell of a lot harder to turn tail and run, like any self-respecting, warm-blooded female should and would do in such a case.

"If he's here Rachel, I will literally die of a heart attack and be eaten by whatever Mastiffs or Doberman Pinschers or gerbils he has here. For the love of GOD, can we go?"

Rachel raised an eyebrow (another of the cursed eyebrow shrugger's ilk!) and looked at me like I was crazy.

Which, quite rightly, I am.

But she could at least have been nice about it.

"Where would we go? Our only ride out's on the damn tour bus. Besides, he's not going to be here until tomorrow, so you've got plenty of time to sulk here Darcy-free."

"Can we at least sneak away from the rubbernecks?" I asked, trying to appeal to the human heart that had to be there beneath her cold, calculating robot exterior. Deep within her, there had to be a human heart, I had seen it in too many movies for it to be wrong now.

"Where would we go? In his bedroom? Through his clothes?" Not even a crack. These robots were getting stronger by the second.

"Thank you for the stunning visual, Rachel, it was just what I needed."

"Speaking of visuals..." Rachel said, looking over my shoulder, I turned and just as promptly, screamed.

I was looking into Will Darcy's eyes.

* * *

_It wasn't as if she were pretty, I told myself, leaning into a corner on my bike._

_No, she was beautiful._

_Beautiful, interesting, original._

_And best of all, she hates your guts._

_Aren't you the lucky boy. You have all this money and all this land, and no matter what you use it for it always brings you problems. First, there was Georgie and Fred. Then there was Catherine de Bourgh. Now the one thing you want is the one thing you can't possibly have, because it can't be bought._

_My mind plays moment from the times before I realized I loved her. The moment at the pool, when I realized how beautiful she was. The party, where she carried her cousin home. Then there was the look in her eyes when she asked me to drive her to her father's house. The expression on her face when she looked at Fred. And then when she looked at me..._

_Dammit. There was nothing for it now but to get home as quickly as possible._

* * *

"OH MY GOD!!!!" I screamed, in my ever present poise and self control.

William T. Darcy stared darkly back.

Or at least the painting on the wall did, which just so happened to be the face of Captain Confusing himself.

Nice job Lizzy, you go girl.

"Wow, it looks exactly like him," I said, trying in my infinite wisdom to cover my ass and act like the "OH MY GOD" had been part of the Art Appreciation master plan.

"You never said he was hot." Rachel said, coming up next to me.

"Did I mention he was a bastard to me?"

"Yes..."

"Then what would it matter if he was hot?"

"Do you know Mr. Darcy, miss?" came a voice from behind. I turned to see a thin old lady looking at the picture and me curiously. I took her for a housekeeper/maidservant/person who runs things in houses like this, and I smiled.

"Umm, no. Well, yes, but not very well, I mean, we've met,"

Keep sweet talkin' 'em, sunny buns.

"And what did you think?" She seemed to be trying to stare deep down in my inner psyche, and my inner psyche seemed to be trying to push its way out of the back of my head.

All in all, not a very fun experience.

"Well... ermm...we didn't really..."

"Well, no of course not." She said, adding to my freakish experience by nodding and adding, "If you hardly knew him, then it's easy to get the wrong impression. He's very good at cutting himself off from everyone, I must say."

And you couldn't be more right, dearie.

"What do you think about him?" said Rachel, butting in excitedly. Obviously she thought that anyone as good-looking as Will Darcy was worth investigating.

So much for nepotism.

"I? Well, he's an even better employer than his father was, and his father was a great man. I've worked here for forty-three years, and I've never felt like a servant to a master. And that, you must understand, is something few people enjoy in my profession."

She smiled at me, and suddenly the situation wasn't as weird as it had seemed. She liked Will so much that it was natural to tell anyone who was interested in him about what he was like. He respected her and so she respected him in return, and in the end, no one was serving anyone, nor being served. It was symbiosis of the best kind.

I held out my hand. "I'm Lizzy Bennet, stupid American tourist."

"Margaret Ross, Pemberly housekeeper."

* * *

_As I rode up the rode to Pemberly, I saw the Highland Experience your bus leave the park and drive back towards the city._

_Good. If there was one more thing I didn't need from my whole extensive list, it was a group or gawking tourists asking how many stones were in the original building, or if there was a bathroom nearby._

_I sped up the drive, killing the engine when I reached the pond. Kicking the stand into place underneath the trees, I took off my helmet and let the breeze cool off my head._

_Damnation. This thing, this feeling, wasn't going away. This guilt about not explaining things better, this regret about insulting her, his responsibility for hurting her sister, it all welled up inside me. All the other bad feelings I had had before had gone away, besides the anger at Wickham and protection of Georgie. Now suddenly I was feeling confused, befuddled, and worse, wrong. I had never felt wrong before, and now I was with such horrible certainty at my wrongness that I was inadequate as anything but being a lump of doubt and self-deprecation._

_Great._

_I looked into the water, sparkling in the afternoon light, and made a decision. I would not let it beat me, I would not let myself feel wrong. I was out of Lizzy's life, and so she had to be out of mine. It was over, and while there was nothing I could do about that, there was something I could do about the rest of my natural life._

_Standing up, I took my shoes and jacket off, and jumped into the water._

* * *

Margaret put a cup of tea down in front of me, and pulled a chair out for herself. The Highland Experience had left without us, for which I was grateful, and I was promised a ride back to the hotel in one of the butlers' cars.

"Are any of the family home yet?" Rachel asked suddenly from where she shared a plate of cookies with Eddy. I froze, my teacup halfway to my lips, like that woman in Radio Days (great movie, if you haven't seen it). I hadn't thought of that. What if, at the very moment I was saved from experiencing the highlands, Will Darcy was upstairs taking a shower?

Or putting on his socks, or something that does NOT involve Will naked (Bad Lizzy! Bad girl!).

"Not yet. But we expect them back tomorrow, the whole party."

"Party?" I asked, my voice a good four octaves higher than usual.

What can I say? I'm not good in high-pressure situations.

"Yes. Apparantly, Mister Darcy and Miss Georgiana are coming with the Bingletons and the Hursts. Mr. Bingleton is Mister Darcy's good friend, you know."

Almost all my favorite people in the same house. Well, at least I was missing them by a good twenty-four hours, thank God.

But, as I am sure you're all well aware, I have horrible and, in some cases, comic bad timing.

Only this time it wasn't comic.

But it wasn't really tragic, either. And going by default, it would have to be historic, but I'm not sure that fits.

Shakespeare doesn't give us enough categories, that's it. Let's just say that my timing (i.e. the time that I felt relieved about not having to speak to/see/yell at and call horrible names/ all of the above with Will Darcy) was really REALLY bad.

Because the door to the kitchen garden opened, and there, in all his glory, and soaking wet, was Will Darcy.

* * *

_What in God's name was I going to say? "Hello, I love you, I'm sorry, what the bloody hell are you doing in my house?"? Not effective at all, man._

_So I guessed it was up to me to put down my shoes and jacket and helmet and try to find something to say._

_"Lizzy."_

_Good start, keeping going._

_"I- I, um, I thought t-that..."_

_Not good, not good, bear up!_

_"What are you doing here?"_

_Also not good! What are you doing, you damn imbecile?_

_Margaret spoke up just then, thank the Lord, and asked "Oh, do you know each other?"_

_"Erm...well I...that is-" we both said._

_Well, this was going well._

A/N: Well, there we are. You remember how I promised to update sooner? Sorry I'm a liar and a procrastinator. But have any of you noticed how many new Jane Austen fics there are now? It's crazy! I got bumped back to the second page and I know I've waited longer on updating before.

To my beta-readers: Sorry I didn't send this to you first, but I wanted to update as soon as I was done. I still love you guys.

I'm now in the realm of junior year (bom bom BOM) which, by all accounts, is the year that coincides with the Apocalypse. I have so much work, I'm almost positive I can see a mental breakdown on the horizon.

But fear not loyal readers! I will (I WILL) work on this story faithfully, and update when I can.

Cheerio (and review??).


	29. Three Good Reasons

A/N: Hello everyone! Getting back into the swing of things now, so it should be (potentially) smooth sailing for little while.

Thesis: The American Public School is a dictatorial government with all focus on statistics and the amount of work given out, and no focus on the depth of the work given.

Reasons: I HAVE FIVE PROJECTS TO DO. ON VERY UNINTERESTING TOPICS. I have papers every night and my weekends are no longer weekends. I HAVE NO TIME TO DO ANYTHING.

Relief: Writing it down logically, keeping my head completely cool and calm. Kicking the crap out of pads at karate. Screaming. Drama Class (which, ironically enough, adds to my workload).

Bridgedweller: thank you for that sparklingly positive and down-to-earth review. Needless to say, I am holding my breath for the next installment, and will do my utmost to conform to your every whim.

Customary Tip of the Hat, Customary Shwoop,

Chapter Twenty-eight: Three Good Reasons

Uhh.

Uh-ba-buh-ba-buh.

Ba buh.

I had absolutely no idea what to say. And, since you know me pretty well by now, you realize that my brain function is turned on high, although the amount of actual things that accomplishes is minimal. So you can bet that me with nothing to say is a monumental occasion.

Darn tootin'.

I mean, HE was there. And that makes perfect sense, considering that I was in his house, and a guy has every right to be in his house...soaking wet...with a motorcycle helmet in his hand...

But the point is, I had no right to be there. So really, the issue was that I was there. And so was he. And we were in the same room together. Well, not together, really, I mean, because you know we're not together—and we couldn't be—which is why there was supposed to be an ocean and a couple islands between us.

The real question (besides who framed Roger Rabbit) was why the hell hadn't he thrown me out yet? Shouldn't he be asking (demanding) that I vacate the premises or he'd call the police, or something to that affect? What was the world coming to that this age-old hatred of former significant (or not so significant) others could be ignored?

"Well," he said again.

Good start, keep going.

"Welcome to Pemberley. How—how are things?"

"Uh-ba-buh."

"Oh...good..." he looked down at himself, and must have suddenly realized he was making a puddle on the kitchen floor, because he excused himself, and strode out.

The second he was gone I made a bee-line for the kitchen door, shaking my head and muttering to myself like the absolute lunatic that I am.

"Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stu--"

"You know, normally I would agree with you, Liz, but what the hell is going on?" Eddie and Rachel had caught up with my pleasure cruise around the kitchen garden, and for some reason looked confused by what had just happened.

It was pretty obvious to me, however that 1.) I had been surprised yet again by Will Darcy's sudden unexpected appearance, 2.) Will was insulted by my presence, and (thank God) had enough self-control to not run me out on a rail.

"Do you know what he's probably thinking right now? He's thinking, 'Golly that was embarrassing, good thing it ended when it did, I never want to be seen with her again.'"

"And this is a bad thing? Just two hours ago you were telling me how much you hate him!"

"Yeah well that still doesn't help anything, now does it?"

I wanted to curl up into my favorite fetal position and die. It was absolutely clear where my life heading from here. I would end up living with my seven thousand cats and drinking Moxie for medicinal purposes. I would lose my sense of taste and smell, and would be found five weeks after I died face down in a bowl of Life cereal, which I had forgotten how to eat. My life, from that moment on, would be a downwards spiral to hell, helped by the Highland Experience and my own amazing combination of horrible timing and stupidity. I was-

But before I got to the part with me naming all my seven thousand cats Figaro out of respect for the Disney (trademark symbol) empire, Will Darcy caught up with me. His feet were still bare, but he was no longer wet, giving my poor, weak brain no clingy shirt to deal with.

"You're not going yet, are you?" he panted, matching my speed with long strides. I tried to go faster, but it's the short person's dilemma to have some tall, long-legged person to escape from and have only short, stubby ones to run away on.

"Uh—yeah, we've gotta go. We have...stuff to do."

No one ever said excuses were my high point.

"Lizzy, wait!" he grabbed my arm and stopped me. I found myself, for the second time in my life, looking deep into his hazel eyes and committing mental suicide for being a corny, cliché romance heroine who says things like "I looked deep into his hazel eyes."

God, I suck.

"Why not stay for a bit? You don't look well, and I can give you a ride home whenever you want to go. Besides," he added, looking up to see Rachel and Eddie in our wake, "I haven't met your friends yet."

"Oh, well... right. Um, this is Eddie, my uncle, and his wife Rachel. Jen stayed at their house when she went to New York." I glanced at Will, trying to find some kind of reaction, but he merely shook Eddie's hand and said, "Pleasure to meet you both."

What was happening? The Will Darcy I knew would have realized how poor these people were and would have already made judgments about their characters. The Will Darcy I knew would have coldly offered for the car to take us home right away.

This was freaky-deaky in the extreme.

* * *

"How long have you been in Scotland?" he asked as we walked toward the lake. He was in full Scottish-mode now, with all the traces of his American accent gone.

"Er- four days, give or take." My voice sounded harsh and whiny next to his drawl, making me even more uncomfortable about this whole "Changed Darcy" thing.

"How long have you been back?"

Good, complete sentences for a change, we're improving.

"About three weeks now, but I haven't really had a chance to be home for a long time. Charlie thinks I don't get out enough, and so the result is that he takes his sisters and me all over the place, and I'm out too much."

"Don't submit to peer pressure."

"Quite."

Silence.

And this silence was absolutely companionable, no awkwardness or expectations or anything, just a good, friendly silence.

A least, it was for him. I was going crazy trying to a.) think of something to say that wouldn't make me sound stupid/desperate/like a constipated duck and b.) not stare at him, his house, or my shoes for a long period of time.

And I was failing.

What the hell was wrong with me? The last time I had been this tongue tied was when Frankie Sullivan had actually tied my tongue to a pole in second grade (don't ask me how, some memories shouldn't be relived). Every minute I was there felt like I was taking crazy pills, and I had to leave now, or I'd start screaming "God save the Queen!" tearing out my hair and running around the field, jump over the wall and never be seen again.

Another embarrassing moment to cap off a lifetime of embarrassing moments.

The weird thing was: I _liked _this Darcy.

Eww, not like that, you losers.

I wanted to know him, that was all, and for some obscure reason, I wanted him to know me. He was as different from the old Darcy as Speedy Gonzalez was from his band of drunken compadres.

Which is very.

In case you didn't know.

Because Speedy Gonzalez is...well, nevermind.

The point was that Darcy was different, and I, on my peaceful lake of non-biased judgment, was wracking my brain to find something, ANYTHING, wrong with him.

I only have so much self-esteem here, people, I have to work hard to preserve it.

But you know, for all my talent at finding fault with people around me, I had no such luck this time.

None.

Zip.

Nada.

Niente (perhaps?).

I mean, not only was he polite to my aunt and uncle, who were so obviously below him, he wasn't sarcastic, scathing, condescending, demanding, commanding, or reprimanding. He was...well, not perfect, obviously, because that doesn't exist.

But he was pretty close.

The one thing I couldn't reconcile with this Darcy for the New Age was the way he had treated Jen and Charlie. Maybe there was still something I didn't get, but I couldn't see how he could have made a mistake like that and still stand by it.

But I, Lizzy Bennet, Apprentice in the Art of Diplomacy and All Things That Take Brain Cells To Accomplish, was learning one of the most important things in life: When to shut up.

Shock! Amazement! Horror, even!

But it was this silence, frightening though it may be to perceive, that led to what happened next.

"Lizzy... I hope you won't think I'm a nutter for askin' you this, but...If you and your aunt and uncle want to... why don't you come meet my sister tomorrow, make a day of it? She wants to meet you--" he paused, then rushed on, "—and you're here, and it would be a nice way to see Scotland minus the double-decker and pink visors."

Did he just ask me to spend the day with him? Like, as in he wanted me within a fifteen-mile radius? Can these things actually happen? IS THIS THE REAL WORLD? Or is it a virtual world controlled by brain-eating machines, and will the body that encapsulates this mind that is trapped inside the Matrix soon be harvested by robots???????

"AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

"What the hell—is something wrong, Lizzy?"

"Wha? Uh—no. Hehe, no no no no no, not at all sir. No."

"All right... then you'll come tomorrow?"

"Yes."

* * *

(Journal Entry # page 766)

As I watched her drive away in my car, I realized two things:

Firstly, that I had no freakin' idea what to say to her, and that I probably looked like an idiot to her while she was cool and collected (minus the whole screaming bit).

And Secondly, that I was in love with her again. Still. Still and again. And this was absolutely going against everything I had told myself about my situation only days previously.

In these two realizations, I came to the conclusion that if she was meeting us tomorrow afternoon, and if she was within a fifteen-mile radius of me, I would never have the chance to fall out of love with her, which had always been a part of that genius post-rejection plan.

But as I saw her turn around and wave to me from behind the driver's seat, came to the elementary deduction that I had no intention of doing so, nor ever would again.

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry about this lateness too, I won't make excuses about it, because you don't want to read them. But I do want to make two announcements, one happy, one sad.

First, the good news: THE RED SOX WON THE WORLD SERIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! For everyone out of the whole American baseball loop, the Red Sox are the team from Boston, and the World Series is the championship that all American teams compete to play in at the end of the baseball season (read: October). The Red Sox have not won this annual competition in 86 years, since our star player, Babe Ruth, was traded to our arch rivals, the New York Yankees, in the peak of his career, thus creating the Curse of the Bambino, wherein we have never won a World Series in almost a century. Now that you've had your American history lesson, it's time to celebrate! YEAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now for the sad stuff: President Bush was indeed re-elected, in maybe the stupidest move America has ever made. I will say no more about it, because then I will probably start ranting, which you don't want to read, but I feel like this is one of the mistakes that will last my entire lifetime, with repercussions across borders and decades.

And yes, I do know where Finland is, although I might not be able to say the same for all my classmates. But my friend Tessandra and I (her father works for this cell-phone company, and he goes to Finland a lot) looked up some Finnish words on the Internet (cool kids, I know), and we found out that there's a word that basically means "Goodbye, I hate you, and I never want to see you again." This is cool, and unfortunately there's no English equivalent.

Hope you guys had a fun Hallowe'en, Sawhain, Dia de los muertos, (and for all of you who celebrate some other holiday that I have not mentioned at around this time period, insert the name of your holiday into that salutation).

And (sorry, really really long message) if any of you guys who live in Australia and New Zealand feel like helping out my buddy Tess, could you e-mail her at ? She's a cool kid, and she wants to know some stuff about Australia. Cheers!


	30. Diagnosing Neuroses

A/N: I am so sorry. No, scratch that, I am SOOOOO SORRY!!!!! I didn't mean for t to go this long, and I'd make excuses but that's weak, so I'll just ask for forgiveness instead.

PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!!!

Fortunately, however, for Christmas this year I got a computer to help me with my schoolwork, and while this may not be schoolwork, it's so much more fun, and I'll have more access to it, so I should be getting back on track soon (knock on wood).

Step into my office, baby:

Chapter 29: Diagnosing Neuroses

(Journal entry #, page 774)

She was beautiful.

Yes, yes, I know, I've already written it about three hundred times, and yes, you're bound to be getting bored of it by now.

And yes, I need to be a bit more creative. All of this I know, thank you.

But I suppose if I say it one more time, it won't hurt. Besides, I'm only telling the truth.

And she was beautiful.

I had not the slightest doubt of what I had to do. Screw the "get over Lizzy you pathetic bastard" idea. Wouldn't work anyway, and I had some fleeting, nagging hope that if I really tried this time it would work out.

Because I hadn't tried at all before.

Christ, I was so stupid! If I thought it would help, I'd beat myself over the head with this journal right now. Of course, I'd get an enormous bruise and be painfully reminded for the rest of the week of how I am of that deliciously rare sect of man which actually keeps a journal.

My testosterone level is quite normal, I'll have you know.

My problem (besides my heaping pile of idiocy and insensibility) was that I had absolutely no idea how to be romantic. I'd never had a real girlfriend before, not someone I really cared about or spent any time with, or had a commitment with…

Dear God, have I been celibate all my life?

Ugh, now I hate myself. Thank you, feminine little journal, for stealing my pride and my masculine ability to completely deceive myself over my amorous abilities. Thank you for making me feel un-romantic-hero-like self disgust and doubt.

Robin Hood never felt like that, nor did William Wallace, the lucky bastards.

What the hell am I writing? How is this in any way constructive?

Get back on task, Willie-me-lad. Stick to the plan.

Right, the plan:

The plan…

Well, there wasn't much to my plan but to get Lizzy back if at all possible.

Good plan, if I do say so.

This means, of course, that I'll have to introduce her to Georgie…

Check, already invited Lizzy over tomorrow.

And then of course spend time with her, keeping her away from Emma and Sarah.

Spend time with her. Brilliant planning ability, good show old chap. Score one for the home team.

What the hell was I going to say to her? "Lovely weather we're having? Would you like some tea? And how is your family? I have no idea what to say so I'm rambling in a vain attempt to capture your interest, please take the pressure off me by saying something interesting? I love you, marry me, and how are you today?"

Didn't pan out, really.

All right, what would Dad say? He'd say, "Son, you're absolutely nutters for trying to talk to me right now. I'm dead, so bloody get on with whatever you're doing and leave my poor spinning body alone."

Thanks, Dad.

Well, if I had learned one thing from American movies, it was that I had to be myself; otherwise the pretty popular girl in school would never be able to see me in a slow-motion montage and fall in love with my inner worth and beauty rather than the outside appearance.

Of course, I'd rather skip the running-through-fields-with-flowers bit myself, you know how it is.

Okay, so if I was going to be Aladdin and Simba and act like me around Lizzy, I would…

Who am I?

No, I'm actually serious, please stop laughing. My emotional train only carries so many passengers, and—

Christ, emotional train? What the hell am I saying? Is this the kind of thing I would say?

It's sad, twenty-four years old and I still don't know who the hell I am. How can I convince Lizzy to love me when I don't even know who "me" is?

How can I stop this flood of cliché long enough to scratch my foot, which has been itching this entire time?

I suck. I am literally the worst human being alive.

But damn it, I'm not going to let the fact that I have no identity stop me from doing what I need to do.

Because, and here you go, you annoying little girly journal, this is my last shred of dignity, enjoy it, I love her.

I love her now, I've loved her for as long as I can remember, and I'll continue to love her.

And maybe that's all the identity I need for right now.

* * *

As much as I wanted to see Will and Georgiana, there was this little voice in my head saying, "Don't do it! Head for the hills! Become a nun! Devote yourself to saving rare species of squirrels world-wide! Dig a hole and live in it for the rest of your life, just don't see them!"

My little voice was getting slightly less rational every damn time it opened its mouth.

Not that it actually has a mouth, because technically it's in my head, and therefore a personification and the like, so it's not something that can actually have a mouth, or any other body part for that matter…

Bad Lizzy! Bad! Fantasizing about your own inner voice's anatomy!

I'm a sick, sick person.

Feel free to shake your head in disgust.

Good…good…good…

Okay, that's enough.

But in spite of that strangely anti-social inner voice, I was sitting in a pub in Stirling called The William Wallace ( I swear to God),waiting for Mr. Dazed and Confused himself ( and by dazed and confused, I mean how me makes me, not him in particular), and wondering all the while: What the hell was I doing?

But all of that was answered, somehow, mysteriously, strangely, irrevocably (SAT vocab word my friends), when I saw Him walk through the door.

Not Jesus you fools.

Of course it was Will. And, strangely enough, he was beautiful.

Which is weird isn't it, considering generally guys aren't the beautiful ones. But it's true, he was a beauty.

I caught his dismayed look as I began hitting my head upon the counter, but I was too caught up in Dobby-like self-punishment to care.

"Lizzy, stop, for Christ's sake!"

"Stupid! Stupid!" This was getting to be an alarming habit.

He caught my forehead as it was about to connect with Bass coasters I had been playing with.

"Are you all right?" he asked, like he thought I was diseased.

Which I was.

"Oh, fine, great, never better. Good morning, star shine," I said, trying not to look like the whole hand-on-head thing was striking me as oddly romantic. He cracked a smile, showin' off them pearly whites, and shook his head at me.

"I'd like you to meet my sister, Georgiana."

Crap. I'd forgotten.

I didn't mind so much that Will saw me making an idiot of myself, hell I did it all the time. But I'd been hoping to make a good impression on his sister at least, to not scare her away or corrupt her innocent, Lizzy-free mind.

Oh well.

:"Hi," I said, shaking hands with a girl at least half a head taller and five years younger than I.

There is no justice in the world.

"Hello," she said, and smiled brightly. I could see the resemblance now; same eyes, same smile.

"I'm Lizzy, and I'm sorry if you're completely weirded out right now, that tends to happen when people meet me."

"Nope. It's actually sort of fun to see someone semi-concuss themselves and then make a quick turnaround."

Same dry humor.

"I hear you play the piano," she said, changing the subject smoothly. I shot a look at Darcy, who grinned unabashedly back.

Jerkface.

"Yeah, I do…but you do to, don't you? Margaret said you're really good."

"Oh, well, not really," surprisingly, she blushed and smiled again. These Darcys weren't so tough.

"Excuse me for a second," said Darcy, and went out. My eyes, traitors that they were, followed him, snapping back to Georgiana with what was probably freakish concentration, because I was determined not to look at Darcy again unless I had to.

"I've a lot about you, you know," she said, sitting down and reaching over to tie her green high tops.

"Really?" I sat down too, and began to rearrange the coasters into a smiley face.

"I've wanted to meet you forever," Georgiana said shyly, and now I could believe that she was in her teens, "Will said so much about you, and all of it good."

I tried not to snort, but it just made me sound like a rusty chainsaw cutting through a pack of Albanian fist fighters. The other bar-goers looked up and around, waiting for the Albanian Chainsaw massacre to come into view.

"Ahem. But seriously, they can't all be good. Will was probably exaggerating."

"No he wasn't. He never exaggerates. He never lies. Ever." And she was serious.

"Good brother then?" I asked, wistfully. I'd never had a brother, nor had I ever been that truthful with Jen one hundred percent of the time. And seriously, I'm extremely bad at keeping New Year/Birthday/Non-religious holiday centered around Santa Claus/Fourth of July/St. Patrick's Day/Memorial Day/ Flag Day/Labor Day/Veteran's Day/Columbus Day/Martin Luther King Jr. Day/Halloween/Thanksgiving resolutions, so no amount of "I will do it this time, because I'm really that strong," got me to be that honest all the time.

I was beginning to feel inferior.

"The best ever," and again, she was completely and totally serious.

"Wow." So was I.

The dust of inferiority didn't have time to settle, luckily enough, because the door opened again, and Darcy reentered, accompanied by a very familiar, very nervous face.

It was Charlie.

In spite of everything that had happened between him and my sister and Darcy, and despite the fact that I should have felt supportive righteous anger toward the guy who listened to his buddy rather than his Honey Bun, I was extremely happy to see him.

I smiled, hugged him, then stood to look at him stammer his way through a salutation (very good word, got it from Charlotte's Web), and then stare back at me as if I was going to do a magic trick or detonate the world with paranoid ocelots.

"Hi Charlie," I said again.

"Hello, Lizzy."

"Um—"

"How's your…mother?"

"Good—"

"Oh good. That's wonderful, really. You're mother's good. Great."

Darcy and I exchanged a look, and I decided to cut the poor boy a little slack.

"Jen's doing well, Charlie. She's working for a florist, finally getting her driver's license, which is good considering I'm not there to haul her ass around at the moment, and she's thinking about adopting."

"Adopting what?"

"A kitten, or a highway, or a cause. She gets kinda lonely without something to take care of."

He stared at me for a moment, blankly. I shot mental daggers at his abnormally twitchy cranium, and repeated choice phrases until he caught on. "Jen…lonely…without…lonely…_alone_…Jen…is…"

And finally, dawn broke over Marblehead (which is actually a harbor, for those not in the know), and he beamed once again.

"Excellent! Perfect! I'll—uh—um—excellent!"

"Ah yes, epiphany," I said, smiling at Georgiana, who seemed to know what was happening somehow.

How clever the youth…

Darcy was looking at me, and for the first time, we smiled at each other.

He had an amazing smile.

I'll have an extraordinarily large bump on my head if this continues, won't I? I thought.

"Shall we go?" he said, holding the door open for his sister, and then for me.

"Gladly," I said, generously donating one of the Bass coasters to the Darcy fund.

I was looking back at Will to (ahem) see if he knew how to operate doors still when I ran into a hard, prickly, cold object.

Oddly specific you say? I agree.

It was only when I was picking myself off the ground, coming in close contact with a two-thousand-dollar pair of high heels, that I put two and two together.

Well, actually, it was three and two.

"Oh. My. God." Came the voice above my head.

"Same to you, sugar plum.

Darcy Georgiana Charlie  two other Bingletons. Emma and Sarah.

The ice queens were here.

A/N: Hope you liked it.

The semi-formal is coming up at my school and neither I, nor my good friend Tessandra have dates (sorry Tess for putting this on public display, but I just want to illustrate how a genius such as yourself deserves a really hot, preferably Scottish, guy to escort you). Sad is the lot. Instead, we're going stag (alone) together, and fully intend to be cynical, bitter, and hilarious, and plan to drown our sorrows in Coke and water respectfully. Wish us luck, and please, if you know any nice, charming, preferably Scottish boys to send to our aid, please e-mail me.

Cheerio, and happy holidays/New Year! .


	31. His Girl Friday Part I

A/N: I AM SO SORRY! I suck at being punctual, or faithful to a story, or whatever. I am SOOOO sorry! Please forgive me!

And by the bye, for all of you who live in/are familiar with the town of Stirling, mine is completely made up, and has no sense of direction, so if my characters walk in the wrong direction past a real monument to a nonexistent children's center, then I take full responsibility, and please don't eat me for it.

Forwards, not backwards, upwards not forwards, and always twirling, twirling, twirling toward:

Chapter 30(!): His Girl Friday (Part I)

All right, so here's the straight skivvy, me hearties. Some people have months to get to know the person they're interested in. Others have their whole lives. Some lucky people have a week.

I had a day.

Yep, a day. And it was, don't get me wrong, one of the most crazy brilliant (as they say in the UK) days of my life.

But it was singular, which in some countries is seen as a draw back.

Emma caught up with Will and stepped in front of me to cut off my path. I slowed down, resisting the urge to step on the back of her four-inch Manolo pumps (the only reason I know what brand they were is because she told Darcy about them loudly three times). Fate, however, was kind in granting me the awesomeness that is Georgiana (Georgie) Darcy.

"What's your full name?" she said.

"Why the hell do you want to know?"

"Well, people say that the first name's the most important one, but that's not true. personally, I think it's the whole name that does it, especially the middle one."

"How do you figure?"

"Most people don't like their middle names, and the shame drives them to be something outside the stupid family names and whatnot. But the way your name rolls off your tongue says what kind of person you are, cause if the whole name's cumbersome, you'll have weighed yourself down with it. That's what I think."

"Oh."

"So what's your full name?"

"Elizabeth Fiona Kilkirk Bennet."

"Not bad, really. Wouldn't want to dance to it, though."

"No, because that would be strange. What about your name?"

"Georgiana Darcy."

"No, your full name."

"That's it."

"Seriously?" I shot her an incredulous glance. "Then what the hell was the whole 'full name says a lot about a person' shit?"

"Da told me when I was ten that I could give myself my own middle name when I'd found one that I liked. I've been trying them out ever since, but I can't find one that I like enough to make it part of my name. 'Georgiana' is hard enough to follow already."

"It is at that."

We walked on, and I caught Will's eye ruefully as Emma squealed and pointed up at the William Wallace Monument. He smiled slightly, and nodded, and then turned to look as the Bingletons rubbernecked ancient Scottish architecture.

"Maybe it's something you can't choose," I said.

"What?"

"Well, look at it this way. If no one gave their children middle names, but left their children to decide, not many of us would actually choose one that we would like our whole lives. Things would change. I mean, if you want to be Georgiana Princess Tiffany Darcy when you're three—" here Georgie giggled loudly, "—you might want a different identify when you're thirteen, and then when you're twenty. If your parents give you a name, that's it, it's a part of who you grow up to be."

"Christ, I'd never looked at it like that. Reckon I'm doomed to have two names for the rest of my life?"

"Well, not if you'd let someone else name you. Maybe Will would do it."

"Nah, he'd just name me Dorcas or Boudicca or something."

"Now that would be interesting."

I smiled up at her (damn sixteen-year-olds, they were all taller than me. I tell ya, it's all them growth hormones in chicken) and she grinned right back.

She pulled her denim jacket around her and hooked her dark brown hair behind her ears. Family resemblance here, people.

"Well, how about you naming me?"

"What, me? Now, I really would name you Dorcas."

"Well, think about it. If you could name anyone anything, what would it be?"

"Dorcas."

"No, I'm serious."

"You think I'd throw around a name like Dorcas for the fun? Dorcas is not a name to be taken lightly, my dear friend."

"You can stop saying Dorcas now."

"But it's so satisfying!"

"Lizzy…"

"Hey, it was good enough for Shakespeare, it should be good enough for you."

"Lizzy…"

"I'll let you know what I think."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Having fun?" said Will, walking up to me, leaving Emma pointing and oohing over some fabulous piece of architecture. I met his eyes, smiled, and then looked away. I mean come on kids, how am I supposed to deal with a crush on Darcy? Where before his cuteness had been annoying, now it was devastating. His smile, you know that damn grin that I hated and wanted to punch was now too sweet, too nice, too awkward to do anything of the kind to.

And I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

He had asked me out once, had said he loved me so much he couldn't stand it. I had been angry with him, had yelled at him, but I had been able to see what he was feeling. Now I couldn't tell what he was thinking, and his eyes didn't help me at all.

They were just distracting.

"Loads," said Georgie dryly. "Will, when are we going to go home?"

"Tired already, G? All this walking shagging you out?" he grinned, poking her in the stomach so that she hit him playfully.

"No, you bloody idiot. But the less I feel like a tourist, the better. Besides, Lizzy's going to play the piano when we get back."

I choked, and Darcy looked between the two of us, obviously unsure of which one to believe.

"Well, you did promise," she said.

"That's a bit of a stretch."

"So you won't?" Will asked, sounding crestfallen for some reason.

"Ur…" I looked at Georgie, then at Darcy, and rolled my eyes. "Fine, as long as she has to suffer too." I jabbed my finger at Georgie.

"Great! We can go back now if you like." He smiled again, this time uncertainly. I liked this one the best, I decided.

Not that I was rating his smiles…

Okay, fine , you caught me, I was.

But unfortunately, that ship had sailed, I'd missed it, and until two days ago, that had been fine with me.

Dammit.

"Lizzy, are you making this up as you go along?" Georgie asked me skeptically. I glanced at her next to me on the piano stool. "How did you know that?"

"Because you're not really playing the music on the paper,"

"Oh. Yeah, well, I never did like that song much anyway,"

"You don't like 'Hot Cross Buns'?"

"See, I had this terrible bun accident when I was but a girl, and now--"

"You said you wanted something easy to get in the 'piano mode',"

"Did I actually say 'piano mode'?"

"I can show the transcript,"

"Okay, give me something harder, all right?"

"What's wrong, Lizzy? Brain freeze?" Emma asked cattily from the sofa.

Brain freeze. Good one, Emma.

"Do you need more music?" Darcy asked from the doorway. He handed Georgie a stack of music books, and smiled at me. I shifted nervously, unsure about how to respond, and plunked a few keys on the piano. His smile faltered a little, and I dug my brain out of the wasteland it had been thriving in to smile back.

All in all, extremely awkward in my opinion. Georgie put another piece in front of me, and I dove in, trying not to notice that Will moved from the doorway to lean on the wall a few feet from the piano. If I looked up, he would directly in my line of vision.

I didn't look up.

When I finished, Georgie took my place, and I made my way to where Will, Charlie, and Emma were sitting, trying to be casual as I sat down next to Will in the only available space left. So much for cool and unflappable. Why the hell was my heart beating so fast? I had sat next to Will before.

Okay, so not willingly, but still. Before I probably would have opted to stand rather than come within two feet of him. But things were different now, and much as I wanted to avoid Will and my feelings for/about him, I also wanted to be closer to him.

It was like puberty all over again.

"That was fantastic Lizzy!" said Charlie enthusiastically, reaching toward me to give me a tentative high-five. Even though the days of the high-five are over, I accepted it for what it was worth.

Again Will smiled at me, not saying anything. This time though, I smiled back immediately, glad to have some brain function left.

"Yes, good job, Lizzy," said Emma, trying to give me a subtle insult, but sounding more like a Captain Kangaroo cast member. I doubt even Stephen Baker could have missed that one, you genius, you.

"I heard that the Army got sent to Fitchburg this summer," she said, with a weird expression on her face like she was holding candy away from a baby, and thoroughly enjoying it.

Sick times we live in, my friends, sick times.

"Yup," I said, "weird choice for an Army facility, but there we are." Where was she going with this?

"That's too bad, especially for you girls in your house."

Oh, she'd better not say what I think she's going to. I jumped in, "I think we'll all survive, Emma." I got up to rejoin Georgie, glancing back at Will, who understood as well as I where this was going.

But Emma wasn't done. "But I thought there was one guy you liked in the regiment. Fred Wickham, wasn't it?"

The piano gave an almighty crash, as Georgie started and looked between Emma and me as she faced each other on either side of couch. From the father couch, Will had half gotten up, looking ready to throw Emma out of the window by her Manolo pumps.

But I was not a good liar for nothing. I raised my eyebrows and smiled in confusion, "If that's what you want to think, Emma, by all means do so." I turned back to Georgie, who looked up at me in anguish. I shook my head slightly and smiled, and she relaxed at smiled back.

"But if you want me to think that, then there must be some truth in the rumor, right?"

I looked up from where Georgie had started playing again, and smiled condescendingly. "It doesn't matter to me what you or anyone thinks to be true, Emma. What matters to me is what is true." And I turned away from her, mentally giving myself a pat on the back and a shake by the hand for being able to think of something to say in time.

Never mind how the mental handshakes are physically possible.

Again I looked up from the piano, this time meeting Will's eyes, and found myself absolutely unable to look away. Yes, the invisible vision glue locked me in place, staring conspicuously across the room at a guy I no longer hated.

He stared back at me, and his eyes we shining with something I had never seen before in any eyes pointed my way.

Pride, yes, in my ability to handle the situation. Laughter, yes, in seeing Emma put in her place. Relief, yes, in the fact that Georgie wasn't hurt. But something else, too.

And I found myself returning that something else tit for tat.

Heehee, tit.

Okay, pulling myself away from seventh grade boy bathroom humor.

And even though I had barely spoken two hundred civil words with this guy, even though I had hated him for the overwhelming majority of our acquaintance, I came to a sudden and wonderful revelation.

I was in love (IN LOVE) with Will Darcy.

A/N: Again, I apologize 100 times! I can't possibly kowtow enough to make up for my poor work ethic and bad lazy habits, and I won't excuse myself with telling you I was busy. I am also sorry that this chapter was a little weird and not so funny, but I can't promise anything for the next one, because if you've read the book, you know what's coming. But I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you don't hate me right now.

Thank you SO much for being patient, everyone, and for not disowning me. Again, I am SOOOOOOO sorry!


	32. The Best Laid Plans

A/N: So here it is, kids. The saddest and hardest part to write. Probably part of the reason it took me so much time to write chapter 30. But there is some nice romance in this chapter, too. Enjoy!

Hey, Bungalow Bill, here's

Chapter 31: The Best Laid Plans

So, picking up where we left off, I am in love with Will Darcy.

Sort of a shocker to me, but I'm sure you figured this all out way beforehand, you clever dogs, you.

So, the situation was identified, now all I had to do was come up with a game plan, complete with X's and O's like in football (the American version).

I'd thought I had hit upon a fool-proof, fail-safe, pain-free plan, and let me run it by you right now:

Don't do anything about it.

Just make puppy eyes behind his back and pretty soon he'll make the first move and presto magico, there I'd have him.

Yeah, it's a crap plan, I know. But the whole planning-to-reality thing was never my strong suit. Dreaming, yes, letting my mind run away with odd fantasies and ideas, definitely, but logically planning stuff out, not so much.

Hooray for me.

Okay, moving away from my self-loathing for a second, and onto the actual run of events.

"Are you coming back?" Will asked me. We were meandering over his lawn later that night, after enjoying a small dinner and escaping Emma, Charlie, and Georgie. Although I loved G, as Will calls her, it was nice to just talk to one person alone for a change. I'm not going to mention how much nicer it was considering that Will Darcy was the one person I was with. Although technically I just did mention that…

"Coming back to…"

"Earth, Scotland, Pemberley, Georgie and me," I glanced at him, but he was looking up at the few stars we could see, avoiding eye contact. I smiled a little, and must have let a none-too-romantic giggle/snort escape because he looked at me weirdly, and I realized he must have thought that I was laughing at him.

"What?"

"Don't get so angry, Willie-me-boy, I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Well, I thought you were totally different from when I first met you," he smiled a little, "but you're not," he frowned. "Not that it's a bad thing, but I was wondering which was your real personality, because you have to have one, unless you're a secret agent man—"

"—Givin' you a number—"

"—An' a takin' away your name, but I just realized that the shyer you are, the less you talk, and the less you make eye contact. I thought it was just because you were a jerk before," here he flinched visibly, and I rushed on, "but that wasn't it. You're just shy."

"I told you I was," he said a little petulantly.

"Aww, muffin, I'm sorry," I reached out to pinch his cheek lightly.

"Muffin?"

"You betcha. But as to your question, I'm here for another three days," which suddenly seemed like no time at all, dammit, "and you and Georgie can always come to Boston soon. As for Earth, I wouldn't count your chickens, sunshine."

"Three days," and it seemed like he was thinking the exact same thing.

Creepy. Soon we would be like those mother-daughter people who dressed in matching outfits and got together every Wednesday for a Roseanne marathon and gossip night. Not a flattering prospect considering I couldn't see Will in a denim shirt-dress with Tweety bird on the breast pocket and hair Aqua-netted into infinity and beyond.

"Yup."

"Well, I'm sure we can find things to do in that time. You don't mind spending tomorrow with us as well?"

"Nope."

"And the day after,"

"Not a problem."

"And the day after,"

"Well, I'll have to check my calendar and get back to you, because I'm really booked…"

"All right then." We stopped near a low stone wall, and he offered his hand to help me sit on it. Genteel and sophisticated, yes, but unnecessary considering gravity would probably have helped me in that department.

Then again, I was slightly sick of necessary. I didn't want to let go of his hand, and so I held onto it for just a second longer than I should have.

In case you didn't know, this creates awkwardness. There was a silence for a moment in which I let go of his hand and tried to think of something intelligent to say.

And failed.

As usual.

"So then you're not coming back," he said, sitting down next to me. I could almost feel the warmth coming off of him, and I had to remind myself not to do anything stupid or impulsive, like grab his hand back or put my head on his shoulder. This whole kind of "I both like you AND respect you" thing was completely new, and for once I didn't want to screw it up for myself.

"Tickets cost a lot of money, especially from America."

"The dollar is weak."

"So I've heard. I can't afford to come here whenever I want to, and even if I could, my life's in Boston right now. I have my sister to worry about, and my mom and my dad, and Lydia and Rowan. I get the feeling like I'd always be there thinking of here instead of there thinking of there."

"Hmmmm…" he looked out over the lawn, over the way the light from the house spilled out over the grass and glinted off the dew. A breeze whistled past my ear and I shivered, pulling my Elmo-printed sleeves farther down my arms.

"I'll miss you," he said, still not looking at me.

After a minute I remembered that oxygen is required for even basic brain function, and took a couple deep breaths, and fumbled for an answer.

"I—I'll miss you."

Still staring at the house, he smiled and took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine.

We sat that way for a long time, neither moving nor speaking, both of us looking as the night sky, the house, and the world I was leaving…

…Dammit.

If that day was perfection in a can, the next one was absolute hell on earth.

Thought I'd get away happy, didn't ya?

Nope. Not for me, anyway.

I didn't really slept that night, mooning over the handful of memories that I had in which I wasn't yelling at Darcy or calling him names or hating him with the passion of a thousand suns.

So yeah, like five memories. And I was dwelling on what my dad had said to me a really freakin' long time ago, "That boy is better than you understand, and if he's done somethin' in the past ye have to let it go. No use bearin' a grudge against someone for somethin' that really doesn't matter in the first place."

Stupid intelligent old man. He made it seem so easy, and it wasn't at all.

But maybe it could be. I mean, now that we had this…thing, maybe nothing but three thousand miles and my friends and Charlie's sisters and my mother would stand between us.

Maybe it would end up the way I wanted it to.

Happily. That would be nice, for a change. Maybe I could actually do something right and have it all work out. Maybe—no, definitely—this guy was different, and maybe it would be me with the made-for-each-other experience.

If I didn't screw it up.

Needless to say, I did screw it up. Royally.

I was washing the lack of sleep out of my eyes when Rachel rushed into the bathroom with the phone. My face still wet and cold, I took the phone away from her, trying to read something from her anxious face.

My face readin' skills are still not up to snuff.

"Hello?"

"Lizzy!" It was Jen. "It's Jen."

"Dur. I haven't been away that long, I still know who you—oh wait, are you Jen from the video store or Jen the crazy woman from Revere with the bulldog?"

"Lizzy, shut up," I was shocked. Jen had never, EVER, told me to shut up. The strongest thing she had ever said was "hush," and no joke.

"What the hell's the matter? Is everyone okay?" I motioned for Rachel to leave; she and Eddie had a meeting with Eddie's boss in half and hour. I was going to go, but this was more important. Rachel nodded and left.

"Everyone here's fine," she said, and I got the impression that she was having trouble saying it. But that wasn't new, Jen had trouble saying anything hard or mean or condemning or inescapable.

"And dad? Mom?"

"Both fine."

"Then what is it?" I was angrier than I should have been, and I knew it. I tried to breathe deeply to calm myself down. It didn't really work.

"It's Lydia."

…

"Dot dot dot, Jen. What's Lydia?

"You know how she went to Fitchburg—"

"Yuh huh…"

"Well, she met Fred Wickham there, as you probably know…" A chill ran up my spine, and I knew. I knew. I had never had ESP or even great abilities at analyzing a situation or a person, but this one moment, I understood.

"Oh God."

"Yes, I know, but she's—"

"Fifteen! How the hell could he do this to her! That bastard!"

"Apparently, she wanted to, too, and she doesn't blame him at all."

"Okay," I calmed down a bit, enough to ask levelly, "then what's the big problem? She may be pregnant, and it may be Fred Wickham's baby, and she may be fifteen, almost sixteen, but if there together and each take responsibility, then what's the issue?"

"He's not taking responsibility."

"WHAT?" I jumped off the bathtub and paced around the tiled floor compulsively.

"Well, he was, and then she told her parents, and they cut her off, and he decided that he didn't want anything to do with her anymore."

"What?" I said, now on the verge of tears. This was my fault, all of it. If I had told Lydia why she couldn't go to Fitchburg, if I had told Rowan what kind of guy Fred Wickham really is, if I had convinced Jen that not everyone in the world is good, then Lydia might not be fifteen, pregnant, and alone like in all those damn Lifetime channel movies.

So in other words, if I hadn't been worried about Darcy, none of this would have happened.

"Lizzy?"

"I'll change my ticket. I'm coming back tonight. I'll be in Logan tomorrow."

"Lizzy…"

"You expect me to sit around here when you need help over there? No way! I'm coming home, no matter—no matter what."

"I love you."

"Same to you, soul sistah. Take care of yourself."

I hung up the phone quietly, then sat down on the kitchen floor and screamed at the top of my voice. I was sobbing when I was done.

This was all my fault. I opened the cabinet on my left near the floor, and took out a bottle of vodka. I hadn't drunk anything while I was here, and now it was time.

After my third shot I was feeling good.

After my fifth I was feeling angry. At the world, at Lydia, at Wickham, at Will Darcy, but most of all at me and my absolute inability to make to right decision for once.

For ONCE !

"WHY?" I yelled, tears running down my face, "Why can't I have something good for ONCE! Why can't anything work out for me? Why the hell am I so stupid?" And for the first time in a long time, I pulled my knees up to my chest and sobbed into my hands. I didn't care how loud I was, or who heard me, or even if I was being stupid and teen-movie cliché. I was tired of making fun of myself while everyone followed suit. I was tired of being ignored and shunted off to the side by my family. I was tired of being thrust into a category or a type, and tired of complying to that type. I was tired of saying stupid things that nobody understands or appreciates just so I could say them. I was tired of nobody knowing me, of the people who knew me being pushed away by my own idiocy. But mostly I was tired of being wrong all the time, of being told I was wrong before I start to speak, of being wrong by default. I was tired of being the wrong height, weight, gender, haircolor, eye color, clique, age. I was tired of being ugly and stupid and vapid, or people telling me that I wasn't their ideal, that I needed to change. It came like a wave, sweeping over me again and again, and I lay on the floor of our rented kitchen and sobbed.

And after a long, long while, I felt an arm creep around my shoulders, and a hand guide my head to just under Will Darcy's chin, and I sobbed louder as his touch shook through me all the impossibilities that I had longed for, that I had even considered to be worthy for.

And he was perfect, too. He didn't rock me back and forth, or do the stupid "shush" thing, or pat my hair. He sat there, and held me, and let me cry on his shirt.

Well, at least now he'd seen me at my ugliest.

When I had quieted down, he said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

I wiped my eyes with my hand, and tucked my hair behind my ears. Will took the vodka bottle from between us and put it on his other side, away from me.

"Lydia's pregnant," I said, leaning my head back on the cabinet.

He waited. He knew by now that this was not enough to upset me.

"Fred Wickham's the father—" he stiffened, and pulled his arm away from my shoulders. I gripped my own shoulders, laying my head on my knees, "—and her parents have cut her off, and Wickham's left her, and she's only fifteen."

"Jesus."

"And now she's all alone, she has our house, but no money, no support, no family to help her get through it."

"I'm sorry, I wish there was something I could do," but he was detached, staring at his arms where they rested on his knees.

"It's not your fault," I said bitterly, "It's mine."

Now he did look at me, searching my face for my usual sarcasm. The fact that he knew me this well was beginning to make me angry. After all, I had had five shots of vodka in about ten minutes.

Life choices, kids.

"What do you mean?" he said carefully, and it seemed to me that he was trying to control his anger.

"If I had told everyone what kind of guy Wickham was, Lydia would have been more careful, Rowan wouldn't have let her go, and I would have done something right for once. But no, I couldn't tell anyone, because," here I tried a chuckle, and it sounded more like a hiccup, "I was worried about blabbing about you and your family affairs and shit. I cared more about keeping your secret, and I let what happened happen. I'm just as responsible as Wickham and Lydia. I'm worse, because I knew what he was, and I still washed my hands and let her go after those spermy soldiers when she was fifteen. Fifteen! What the hell was I thinking?" I hit my head with my hand, and he made no move to stop me. "I'm responsible! And it's all because of that stupid confidence I treated your story with!"

He had moved away from me now, and visions of the night before ran through my head. I was blaming myself, blaming him, and blaming the baggage that was going to split us up no matter what.

"Are you blaming me?" he asked quietly, and even through my haze I could tell he was furious.

"Yeah, I'm blaming you," I ran my hands through my hair. "But not just you. It's both of our faults. But more mine than yours, I'll at least take that credit."

We sat in silence for a while.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," I said finally.

"I know."

"Tell Georgie and Charlie I'm sorry I'm running out, please." I could manage an empty, bland tone as well as he could.

"Of course."

More silence.

"Do you need me to drive you to the airport?"

"No, don't bother. I'll take a taxi. I wouldn't want to intrude on your extremely cordial hospitality, would I?"

"Do you need anything else?"

"No."

"Well, then."

"Goodbye."

And in those two Breakfast at Tiffany's seconds, he was gone.

And half an hour later I hauled myself off the floor, and went to pack.

In the shower, it hit me.

He was never coming back.

I had done it again.


	33. Don't Stand So Close to Me

A/N: So here we are again. Not quite so speed demony as the last chapter, but at least it's within the same decade…

So Cheerio, and enjoy.

Oh tell me tell me tell me, who wrote

Chapter 32 Don't Stand So Close to Me

"Listen, Mrs. Marlow, this is your daughter we're discussing here—"

"Yes, I am well aware of that, Elizabeth. That's not the point."

"Not the point? Then what _is_ the point, ma'am? She may have made a mistake, but that means you should be standing by her and helping her! She's only fifteen, and she has no family near her."

"She has Mary."

"Oh come on, Mrs. Marlow. Mary's about as much help as Lincoln Logs are structurally sound, and you know it. Lydia needs guidance from the people who matter the most, and in case you're baffled by my clever code, that's you."

"I'm not going to discuss this with you, young lady."

"Why not? Are you waiting for a better time? You know, a time when she's not pregnant? Not having a kid?"

"That's hardly—"

"Because if you're trying to escape this somehow, if you think you can just forget about it if you don't acknowledge it, then you're wrong. There will never be a better time to talk about it, Mrs. Marlow, and you're hurting your chances of ever speaking to your daughter again."

Mrs. Marlow took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes in a way that suggested I was causing her some kind of awful stress. I stood in front of her desk, resisting the urge to fidget with the blown glass Dippy Bird or crack my knuckles in an extremely un-business-like manner. It had taken me four hours and seven death threats at frumpy junior execs to get here, and dammit, I was not going to leave until I had made my point.

Marlow sighed deeply, replacing her glasses on the edge of her nose and shuffling some papers on her desk. She didn't look up.

"We're not finished, Mrs. Marlow," I said indignantly. I hated being ignored by adults; it was almost as bad as being ignored by my friends.

Who technically (except for Georgie and Lydia) were adults now too.

Damn I'm old. Next I'd be mesmerized by botox commercials and doing that weird old lady dance that kinda looked like the front stroke combined with crazy pelvic shakeage.

"There's really nothing I can do, Elizabeth. Now if you'll excuse me—"

"You're asking _my_ forgiveness? What about your daughter? When will you beg _her_ to forgive you?"

"There really nothing—"

"—_I_ can do for her. You're right. There's nothing I can do. I have no money, no hope of getting a good job yet, no connections, no experience with babies, no discount on diapers. You can be honest, Mrs. Marlow, I'm helpless when it comes to taking care of Lydia and her kid. None of us can support her. But then, that's not our responsibility, is it?"

"Wha—"

"You're her mother. Her guardian, the one who provides for her, the one who makes decisions for the benefit of your child. You can help. You have the resources, the ability, the discounts, the connections, the staff members, the private tutors, the good schools. You have the ability to give your daughter and her kid the best. So really, it's not a question of ability, now is it, Mrs. Marlow?"

She sat up, outraged. "Do you really think you can just come in here and tell me what to do?"

"Why not? You seem to be able to dictate what happens in my life, in Jen's, Rowan's, Kat's, Mary's, and Lydia's. Why shouldn't I be able to return the damn favor?"

"That girl is no longer my responsibility!"

"Yeah, because that would be embarrassing, wouldn't it? If she were you're responsibility, you'd bear a portion of the blame for what happened! If you were responsible for her, she should have turned out the wayyou told her she should!"

"I'm warning you…"

"What? To shut up? Honey, I've been told that enough by my own mother. It doesn't affect me. Listen, you may resent your part in this, you may despise the smudge it's put on the pristine Marlow name, it may sully your standing in your social Elysium, but I don't give a crap about any of that. Because your first responsibility is to your family, not what others say about you. I'm asking you to help because I can't do it myself. Otherwise, I'd forget about you and not bother myself with someone who has such obvious contempt for the meaning of family."

"Why you little bitch!"

"You're calling me that? Well, _mon capitain_, you would be in a position to judge me, wouldn't you? Your daughter needs you, needs your help, needs you to understand, and all you've done since I got here is whine and kavetch and hem and ha over how _embarrassing_, how _impossible_ it would be to help her. If anyone should be throwing around insults in an extremely undignified manner, it would be me, thanks very much."

"Get out."

"Not until you agree to help Lydia!"

_**"Get out of my office!"**_

"No." I raised my chin, clenching my fists at my sides. Damn her, getting me worked up when I promised I wouldn't be affected. I was going to take whatever she threw at me, but I would not leave until she heard.

Unfortunately, I reckoned without the whole silent alarm dealy. Soon, two burly-looking security guards had me by the biceps and were in the process of dragging me out of the building. Opting for dignity over passion, I walked with them, my mind carefully blank.

When they literally threw me out of building, however, I was not so cool and collected.

Damn it all to hell.

This was not my week.

* * *

Jen looked over at me across the kitchen table and sighed. I was, at the moment, stirring around my intricate combination of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Lucky Charms, Crispix, and Cheerios, completely oblivious to the fact that the Lucky Charms marshmallows had lost their color, so there was no point in eating them anymore.

"Lizzy, what's wrong?" I jumped, my spoon flying from my fingers. I fumbled it a little until it dropped, spilling milk all over the Calendar section of the Boston Globe.

"Huh? Oh—jeez, crap. What was that, Jen?"

"Something's the matter," she said reprovingly, "and you haven't told me what it is yet."

She was right. I usually told her everything. But how could I say I was in love with Darcy, the guy I had hated, and that Lydia's problems had ruined my life?

On the selfish scale, that's about a 10.5.

I couldn't really remember a time I had lied to Jen about anything important.

Except maybe this one time when Pound Puppies were really big, and Jen had ten of them, and I only had six and I was jealous, and theft and deceit and knavery of every kind ensued.

But come on, folks, that was a long time ago, can't we forgive and move on?

This time, however, I was sure that lying to Jen would bring her more comfort than telling the truth, and it wouldn't throw me into the spotlight at all, which was good.

So I lied.

"Oh, you know, it's this whole Lydia-Wickham thing. It bothers me. I mean, what do I want? Do I want Wickham to marry her and take care of them? I don't like Wickham, and he's not really responsible, so maybe not. But do I want him to just pay child support and leave Lydia alone with the kid? Again no, because that's an enormous job and she's really freakin' young. But I definitely don't want him just disappearing and ignoring his son/daughter. I don't know. Whatever outcome happens, it'll be painful to deal with."

Jen nodded understandingly, making me feel worse. What I had said wasn't really a lie, I mean those things had been bothering me for a while. But they weren't what was making me sad.

You all know what was, you smartypants(es).

"How's Lydia doing?" I asked, trying to distract myself from the road of self-pity.

"Hasn't come out of her room yet. She found out about her mom and you."

"How the hell did she find out? How did you find out? I didn't tell anyone where I was going."

"Mary knew, and told everyone."

I clenched my fists and fought to control the string of profanity that was trying to push its way out of my mouth.

"Jen—I am going to kill her," I said sweetly, like a jaded kindergarten teacher.

"I could agree with that," Jen said quietly. I looked up across the table, and she met my eyes. I could see the tears she was fighting back, and I knew the cause.

Like me, she wasn't really thinking about Lydia anymore. She was thinking about when the world was right and sweet and beautiful to her.

Unlike me, she was thinking about Charlie Bingleton.

And s it just me, or am I being really melodramatic and self-centered? I mean, okay, what just happened to me sucked, but that's no excuse for me doing the whole End of the World sequence in my head. It wasn't my show anymore, that was it. It wasn't my fault that shit had happened, but now that it had, I needed to suck it up and help work it out.

Bottom line, end of story.

And whining about it, to Jen or internally, wasn't going to help anyone. Especially not Lydia, of whom I should have been thinking the entire time.

All I needed was a game plan.

So: Mrs. Marlow in all her benevolence had refused to give us money/ support Lydia. Okay, who needed her anyway. We could get by on our own. Someone would just have to get a job to pay for costs.

And I had a sneaking suspicion of who that someone would be.

* * *

(Journal Entry # 1, page 1)

New journal.

Frightfully original opening sentence. Like opening a sequel film with "This film is the sequel to Land Before Time Twenty Seven."

Also frightfully embarrassing, as I am continuing stupid tradition of writing in journal when I am, for all intents and purposes, a fully functional human of the male variety.

However, the self loathing over a insignificant pad of paper in which I happen to write every day is very good at distracting me from my obsession of every waking hour.

And, also being extremely predictable, I'm sure it's obvious what I am talking about.

Lizzy's good bye was not exactly what I had had in mind the night before, when everything was going so beautifully and I was almost ready to tell her—to ask her again… Oh shite, what does it matter anyway. It's not like we can change the past or anything, no matter how much we want to.

But I can change the future. I can make my mistake right to Lizzy and Georgie and Lydia and to myself. And I fully intend to do so.

Which is why, at this moment, I am sitting outside Fred Wickham's new apartment, waiting for him to come home.

Even if I could never get a chance to be with Lizzy again, I could still do the right thing, dammit.

And as his car pulled up, I smiled a little bit.

This retribution thing might actually be fun.


	34. I'm Gettin' Married in the Mornin'

A/N: Okay, so maybe this is really self-centered, but I'm kinda disappointed in my lack of appearance in the C2 realm. Not that I really have any idea how that crap works, but it's sad to see other people's stories (really good ones, too) and to not be a part of it.

Yes, I cried the salt tears of rejection.

Okay, so that really was stupid and self-involved, and maybe I love my story a little bit too much, but all the same, you know?

So anyway, tearing myself away from my self-righteousness for a second, and moving on to what y'all are here for.

Ding Dong the Bells Are Gonna Chime, for

Chapter 33: I'm Getting Married in the Mornin'

"I just feel awful Lizzy," Lydia said, leaning her head back against her headboard. She had her knees drawn up and was resting her head on them, and I got a sudden flashback of two weeks ago, when I had been in just such a position.

Except I had been on the floor, and there had been a bottle of vodka and the man I loved next to me.

Mental Slap! Wake up you selfish blob!

"Awful about what, Lyds?"

She looked at me in disbelief, and then looked pointedly down at her stomach.

"Okay," I said, "while I'm fully aware that you're preggers, that's not what I meant. What's really making you feel bad? Is it your mom? Fred? Intricate combination of the two? Morning sickness? What?"

She sighed and shrugged. "Mostly Fred, I guess. Like I should have known better than that. I should be smart; I'm technically supposed to be so, considering I'm in college already and all that. But no, I do something dumb and get pregnant to I guy I don't even know really!" She picked up her teddy bear Linus and hugged him to her chest.

She looked so young.

All right, so maybe it was the pigtails and the baby pink pajamas with bunnies on them, and maybe it was the fact that Linus had a torn ear just like in the movies and whatnot.

And maybe it was the fact that she really was young.

Either way, it made me sad, and angry, and responsible. And I wasn't really sure which way to act around her at the moment.

"You know, Lydia, it's not like only stupid women get pregnant at inopportune moments. It happens to lots of people of varying IQ point counts."

"Don't tell me it wasn't stupid, Liz, I know you think it is."

"Erm, okay, so it was stu—I mean, a lack of judgment, but that doesn't make you stupid. I mean, look at me!"

She did. For a long time. And at the end, her face was just as blank.

"I am looking at you."

"Dammit, Lydia, it's a freakin' metaphor, okay. I myself am not really stupid, per se, but I do stupid things—"

_Flash: "I'm responsible! And it's all because of that stupid confidence I treated your story with!"_

Damn brain! This is NOT about you! Silence, you fiend!

"Oh shit," Lydia moaned, flopping over sideways. "I'm screwed…"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Lyds."

"Lizzy?" she sounded small again.

"What?"

"What's gonna happen now?" She was curled up on her side, making her look even younger. I remembered when she was twelve, for God's sake. Twelve.

"I'll get a job, you'll have the baby, and all five-six of us will support it. If I find Wickham, I'll make him pay for what he did. And you'll be fine. We'll all be fine."

"Do you really believe that?"

I thought for a moment. "You know, I actually do? Crazy, huh? Usually I'm a pessimistic bastard, but I actually think things will work out in the end."

"How will they?" she asked, going into our old Shakespeare in Love routine.

"I don't know. It's a mystery."

"Good night Lizzy."

"Sleep well, kid."

I left the room, with one resolution fixed firmly in my mind.

Wickham was going to pay.

* * *

I circled "Team Mascot" with red pen. Above it "Part Time Waitress" and "Babysitter" were already highlighted, bringing into depressing light my actual prospects when it came to business.

Damn English majors…

"Here's one, Liz," said Rowan from across the table, "unless, of course, you're not up to the life of a truckie, which considering your fierce alcohol habit and weird daydreams, might not be the safest bet."

"Gee, thanks, Row, that makes me feel ten times better about myself. Besides, I'm giving that stuff up."

"Weird daydreams?" he reached for a handful of Frosted Shredded Wheat, then chucked the box across to me.

"No, the hooch. I'm giving up the hooch."

"No freakin' way. Lizzy Bennett goes off the booze? I never thought I'd live to see the day." He smiled at me and winked.

I winked right back. "You knows it papi, so there's gonna be a new law in town…"

"Yessir, sheriff."

"This town ain't big enough for the both of us."

There was a silence.

"You know, you're going to need to get all alcoholic substances out of the house."

"Yup."

"And stock up on the necessities."

"You mean like in Trainspotting?"

"Minus the buckets and porn, sure."

"And you'll also have to help me resupply our sad cereal and Sunny D collection. We haven't had any here since I got back."

"Yes ma'am," he saluted me with two fingers.

There was more silence.

"You know it's more complicated than that, right?" He said, looking down at his classifieds.

"Yup."

"No ser—"

"Seriously? Yeah, duh, I'm not all hairdye and craziness, you know. I have some conception of how the world works."

"Okay, just asking…For curiosity's sake, Liz, what brought this on?"

"I'm gonna be deep and profound," I smiled.

"I'll duck for cover if it gets too shlocky, I promise."

"Head for the highground."

"Go for the bombshelter."

"You save yourself Forsythe, I'm not going to make it!"

"Liz?"

"It occurred to me yesterday that I'm, you know, an adult."

"Jesus. We are, aren't we?"

"Yeah. And now that I'm actually legal drinking age, I've been drinking for five years or so. It just feels like I need to grow up and find my own fun, substance free."

"You realize that you're forsaking a legally adult action in order to be more adult, right?"

"The thought did cross my mind, sweet cheeks."

"And that somewhere in there might be a heavy moral or metaphor for viewers across America?"

"I'm sure the ratings will take a beating, but I'm not trying to be all Hemingway about it."

"Urm…?"

"All symbolism, no feeling."

"Stupid English majors…"

"Ah, shut yer yap, Forsythe."

"Did I mention that you're my hero?" He asked, making a little-kid hand motion for the cereal box. I scooted it across the table and tried to come up with something to say.

Big flop, as you might have guessed.

"Urm…why?" Well, it wasn't Shakespeare, but it would fit.

"Ah, you know, this whole Lydia-Wickham thing, the decisions you made about school and stuff. You're doing what needs to be done, and it looks like you're not even thinking about what you want. That's classy, Liz," he smiled at me, and I felt tears prick the backs of my eyes.

What was I, a fountain? Jeez, kids, I needed to get a grip, because the whole Waterworks deal was not my bag.

Soon I'd be sitting on a couch watching endless Lifetime madefor TV movies and eating breakfast burritos out of the box in my floral robe and curlers.

"Oh, and it's also making me feel like a huge prick for not doing something similar."

"You have your own apartment, Row, though no one would know it, considering how much time you spend here," he chucked a shredded wheat cube at me, and I caught it in my mouth. Cool points to Lizzy: 6.

"Hey, not bad, Liz-mastah."

"You have trained me well, sensei."

"Now you must revisit wax-on, wax-off." He did the hand motions holding the cereal box and a glass of orange juice.

"Oh look! Construction workers needed! Sign me up!" I went back to the paper, feeling somewhat happier about the whole thing.

"If you're having crazy pipe dreams about handling a jackhammer, stop them now," said Kat, coming into the room and sitting on my arm rest. I smiled at her, noticing how Rowan's eyes lit up for a second before he stuffed cereal into his mouth and tried to be nonchalant.

Smooth sailin', sugarplum.

"Yeah, Kat, I'll have to stop them, but somehow, I can't seem to pull myself away from the rush…"

"Shush it Lizzy," said Jen, from behind Kat, "or you'll actually make me start believing in those 'crazy pipe dreams',"

"Hokai, so as much as I love you all and I'd love to spend time with you, I'm getting the sneaking suspicion that something's going on," I looked from Kat to Jen and back, and while Kat could keep a straight face while being simultaneously tickled and attacked by wolverines, Jen suddenly took up an interest in the holes in the rug (no, I did not spill battery acid there, why do you ask?).

"I don't think they're hiding anything, Lizzy," said Rowan, still too deep in the Girl-I-Like-Is-In-Same-Room/Girl-I-Like-Is-Potentially-Hiding-Things-From-Cousin shock to assess the situation.

That's pronounced **as·SES,** if you put the right emphasis on the right syllable.

Just thought I should check to make sure you (Boston accent) **smahties **out there are keeping up on your vocab.

Educational media, that's me.

"Yeah, okay, Rowan. You can close your mouth now." Rowan's mouth snapped shut from where it had been hanging in a She's So Beautiful loll.

"Please tell me, Jen," I said, fixing her with my might Volcan Death Glare, which I was sure a.) existed and b.) Jen possessed. She was going to crack soon, if my skills as interrogator were anything to go by.

"You're right, Lizzy, I'm sorry."

I am the new Madame Cleo, so cahl me now foah yoah free readin'.

"There are actually two things to tell you."

"Good news/bad news sort of thing?"

"Umm, not really. See, mom's here—"

Bloody freaking hell and all things that go with it! Was I not allowed to have a moment's rest? Damn you Salizar!

"Okay…" I said, taking a breath, "that's," _breath_ "all right," _breath_ "I can deal."

"But that's not all, Lizzy."

Breath. "Then tell me."

"Fred Wickham's here too. He wants to see Lydia."

Flash: _**I don't need to tell you that I sent Wickham away with no money and no fourteen-year-old wife. Georgie stayed with me, learned how to run Pemberley while I was gone, and learned how to protect herself from Wickham if he turned up again…**_

_**Sincerely,**_

_**William Darcy**_

I stood up, fists tight and blood pumping. As I raced to the door, I remembered the promise I had made myself earlier that day.

Wickham would pay.

Oh man, would he pay.

A/N: Hey guys! For reference of those not in the recent Boston past loop, Madame Cleo was a TV psychic who had this Jamaican accent and would always offer a "free readin'" if you "cahl now." Turns out she was from Cincinnati and wasn't clairvoyant (hard to guess, right). Thanks a bunch for reading, sorry this took longer than the last two.

Oh, and I saw Star Wars…I liked it, but I had this aching suspicion that it wasn't that good a movie. The dialogue was crap in places, and the entire thing was CG (computer generated) and Hayden Christiansen was not as good as he could have been, and that scene as Darth Vader—hilarious. But I liked it all the same, and I strongly urge you to spend your hard earned pocket money and see it.

So, with that bracing stint into material Hollywood stuff, have fun!


	35. Lime in the Coconut

A/N: Allo ducks! Roundin' the corner, here.

But two things before I kick off: Look back on chapter titles, and you'll see that not many of them are really relevant. Maybe I've gotten into a relevance jaunt recently, and for that I apologize. Also, I was planning to go farther and in a different direction with that chapter when I wrote the first part, but changed my mind, and the chapter title did not follow suit.

Also, to the notes on the lack of Darcy: dur, kids. Lizzy notices it too, which is why she is lonely and stressed. You're not alone, but there has to be some separation between you and him, otherwise how can you miss him if he won't go away?

Chapter 34 Lime in the Coconut

As I strode (ahh, strode…such a powerword) into the living room, I saw him. He was standing around with his hands clasped behind his back, looking appreciatively at some piece of art in some frame or another.

Just standing there, like it was totally natural.

I wanted to kill him.

In fact, I would have killed him. I was on my way to strangle him when two things happened.

First, Kat, Rowan, and Jen pulled me back from the brink and held me securely to the spot.

And second, my mother, Medusa herself, stepped in my way.

It was so well timed it could have been a slow-motion movie sequence. Unfortunately for me, it wasn't, and I didn't have a chance to get my revenge.

Now normally kids, I wouldn't preach revenge as a way of life. I mean, if you get revenge, then they'll get revenge, and soon you'll get one of those insane Hatfield and McCoy/ Grangerfords and Shepherdsons deals, and I wasn't that deeply rooted in Americana, let me tell you.

However, in these extenuating circumstances, I was willing to let my principles slide in exchange for a good sucker punch to Fred Wickham's sculpted nose.

Or a good kick to the groin, take your pick.

But that wasn't going to happen, because my mother looked indignant and started screeching: "Elizabeth Geneva Kilkirk Bennet! What the hell did you think you were doing?"

I looked at her, startled. I mean, it's a certifiable fact that my mother blames everything on me, but nothing had been done that I was in the least bit guilty of.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, mom. And my middle name isn't Geneva. It's Fiona."

"That's only because of your idiot father. And of course you know what I mean, ignorant girl! How could you let Lydia get pregnant when you don't have enough money to support a baby or pay for doctors' bills!"

"Excuse me? Did I miss the part where I flew back from Scotland to become a man and impregnate Lydia, and then get a sex change again to cover my trail? Did I sabotage their chosen method of contraception, did I conspire to get her drunk so I could have my wicked way with her? You can blame everything in the world on me, mother, but this is beyond my control. If you want to blame anyone, turn around and look at the father." I gestured with my head, as Kat and Jen still had my arms. Which was good, considering I was seriously considering knocking out my mother as well.

Mom turned around and look Fred Wickham up and down. He smiled charmingly and nodded, not in the least bit guilty or bashful or responsible.

_Damn him._

"I recognize you," said my mom. "Weren't you at Susan Kingsley's Valentine's Day party?"

Wickham nodded again, still smiling. "Yes ma'am."

"And then at Charlotte's wedding?"

Nod. Smile. "Yes ma'am."

God he was good. He could charm the pants off a pantsless pants salesman, no doubt about it.

God, I hated him.

"You're the father?"

"Why yes, I am, Mrs. Bennet,"

"What do you plan to do about it?" She was smiling a bit too, and I realized the danger. This was no longer the demon she'd envisioned when I pointed him out, the kind that ravages young women for their own brutal purposes. This was suddenly a bright, intelligent, handsome young man with full potential and deference to older women. He wasn't a stinky, sweaty biker guy, but a guy in uniform.

And everybody knows that ladies love a man in uniform.

"Well ma'am, that's what I come to discuss with Lydia." He smiled one last time.

Case closed.

"Like hell you will, you sick bastard!" Rowan growled from next to me. A little surprising from a guy who used to eat paste and hide behind me when we played Red Rover, but appreciated it nonetheless. I was no longer alone.

"Rowan, be quiet!" my mother snapped. The tables had turned yet again, and I was back in her line of fire.

"Elizabeth, I cannot believe you would be _selfish_ enough to go _gallivanting_ off to Europe with my _useless_ brother when you knew that your friend might have needed you here! Moreover, I'm _appalled_ that you're not taking the necessary steps for _providing_ for your household, that you haven't found a job or anything. And most of all, I'm _disgusted_ at your_ self-absorbed_ behavior!"

"Would you expect anyone _else_ in this house to do it?" I shot back, my blood beginning to boil. "Would you call Rowan selfish if he went on a trip with Eddie and Rachel? Would you be appalled by Kat not taking necessary steps to providing for a household? _Would you ask Jen to get a job to support us?_ No, you wouldn't! And you know it! You have always been 'disgusted' with me and my behavior, and I don't care anymore, because now you disgust me! You haven't even seen us since the last social engagement, you've barely paid attention to anything we do or want, except when a rich man comes to call on Jen, and all of a sudden it's 'You're so beautiful, Jen, he's so rich, Jen, why don't you walk to his house in the sleet, Jen?' You call me self absorbed? Who doesn't pay attention to her children? Who let her own money focus ruin her marriage? Who doesn't give enough of a damn about anything that happens here to bring the man responsible for Lydia to call for it? _That's_ self absorbed, mother."

"Shut up, Elizabeth! How dare you speak to me like that? Am I not the one who raised you?"

"Oh yeah, a big shout out to Mommy Dearest, thanks a bunch. Now I'll always remember who to thank for the fulfillment of basic necessities."

"Which cost money."

"Is that all you care about? Dear _God_ woman, this is not about money, nor is it about me, and nor is it about you. Don't you understand?"

"You filthy little—"

"Mom," Jen interrupted suddenly, and both my mother's and my heads whipped around, "It's not Lizzy's fault what happened. She was right, it's—it's Fred's and Lydia's responsibility. Don't blame Lizzy for it."

My mother froze. Here was Jen, her favorite, non-intrusive child standing up for Lizzy, the socially awkward misfit child. How was she supposed to back out of this one gracefully?

She was quiet for a while, in which Fred Wickham rolled up and down on the balls of his feet and smiled at me. I glared back at him, and he winked and shrugged.

Why was I being surrounded by assholes? This was not my month.

"I see," my mother finally said. "Well, we'll just have to deal with that when the time comes."

If any of you can actually understand how that pertains to the situation, I'll give you a dollar.

"In the meantime, I'll be staying here with you, to make sure everything goes well. Lizzy, I hope you don't mind giving up your room."

There was no question. "Nothing I'll miss there, mother."

She climbed the stairs in faux regal silence, and disappeared.

The second she was gone, I charged at Fred Wickham.

You know that saying, knowing when to quit?

Yeah, well, it was pure gibberish to me at the moment. I'd fought with Will, I'd fought with Mrs. Marlow, I'd fought with my mother, and dammit, I was gonna fight with Fred Wickham too.

Jen, Rowan, and Kat caught me again, though, so my hopes were dashed on the rocks of dashed hopes.

And poetry gets a new meaning…

"You irresponsible, pig-headed, lying, cheating, cradle-robbing son of a bitch!" I screamed at him, struggling against my captors to free my arms, which I wanted to wrap around his neck.

Again, he grinned, and I wondered how the hell I could have thought he was good-looking. I noticed now that he had bruises around his left eye and over his cheekbone.

Someone had gotten there before me.

Well, I'd just add to them, that was all.

"Aah, feisty," he said.

Rowan let go of my left arm (I'm a lefty by the way), and I took a swing at his nose.

It connected. I stood, proud of my handiwork as Wickham crumpled to his knees for a moment before standing up. I wasn't strong enough to lay him out, but at least he'd need a nose job.

"I always like a girl with a temper," he said, standing up.

"Hey, shut up, asshole," Rowan stepped up behind me.

"But I'm not a fan of her friends," Wickham shot back.

"Aren't you forgetting one friend in particular? You know the fifteen-year-old-friend you impregnated?"

"Nope. I've come to talk to her. Otherwise, I'd be doing something fun," he stepped closer to me, "you know, like hitting up the bars or something. Definitely not here with all you moralistic shmucks."

"You'd better be joking about talking to her on your own," I answered, choosing to ignore the latter part, "because in my memory, the last time you 'talked' you made a Wickham junior with a teenager."

"Hey now, let's not be a potty mouth, Elizabeth. All I need to do is talk to Lydia. But I'm not gonna do it here," he said, looking at our faces, "no, somewhere nice and private and—_peaceful_." His timing was good, I'd give him that.

And I was in a bind as well. They needed to discuss certain things, that was true. And I needed to make sure Lydia had closure, yada yada yada. But I didn't want them alone together (which is an oxymoron by the way) and I didn't want her there without support.

I'd have to send somebody with her. Someone I knew wouldn't kill anyone, but would protect Lydia.

I smiled back up at him, and nodded. "Absolutely, you may speak to her. But I'm gonna have to send someone with you two to make sure she gets home safe and sound, _daddy_. Rowan will be right along with you."

"What?" said Wickham.

"What?" said Kat and Jen.

"WHAT?" said Rowan.

"Come on, Row, back me up on this." I nudged him with my foot. He sighed, and shook his head, running his hands through his hair.

"Fine. I'll go."

"Have fun, you three," I said, and moved toward the stairs to get Lydia.

Maybe something good would come of this.

Hopefully something good would come of this.

Little did I know, something good would come of it.

A/N: Just a note, for those not in America/familiar with American history and literature…

The Hatfields and McCoys were two feuding families in the boondocks of West Virginia and Kentucky in the 1860's-1880's. It was escalated by a McCoy girl eloping with a Hatfield man, and the feud became even uglier and angrier.

The Shephardsons and Grangerfords are two families (which satirize the Hatfield- McCoy bunch) from Mark Twain's _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_. Everyone who's taken American lit this year will understand, and for those who don't, I hope this cleared it up.

Also, a bit about the Boston in this story. I'm aware that a bunch of the things are geographically impossible in Boston. Bear in mind that when I wrote them, I was thirteen-fourteen, and wasn't concerned about it being accurate to my home, but more to the book. If I ever re-edit, I'll make things better. Also, to those kids from Boston—where in Boston do you come from? In Cambridge or Revere or actual Boston? I'm from the burbs meself…

Cheers!


	36. Prelude to a Kiss

A/N: Sorry I took so long to update, but I've been in France and Maine (quite a combo, I know), so I couldn't update faster. I'm now seventeen, by the bye, which is weird beyond measure. I also understand that lots of you will be reading/have read the new Harry Potter, so please prioritize, and read that first. I won't spoil it for you, but I will say that it's AWESOME.

Merrily we roll along, to

Chapter 35 Prelude to a Kiss

I grunted as I pushed the twelve yards of felt into the washing machine, trying not to notice how everyone else in the Laundromat was staring at me.

Not that there's anything to be embarrassed about twelve yards of humongous cow print in this day and age.

Perhaps I should explain: I, Lizzy Bennet, queen of the couch potatoes, lady of the lotus eaters, and diva of the drugstore cowboys, had gotten a job.

Now, you may be wondering why a beautiful, talented, sophisticated woman such as myself would need to wash an obscene amount of felt in the high-paying, high-powered job she is currently deigning to fulfill.

Let me explain: I am not a skilled worker. I have no money, no connections, nor any talents needed in today's "growing" economy. I touch a computer and break it, I have no patience with parents, my people skills are low, and I would be a sucky doctor.

That being said, I had recently been hired to play the part of Daisy the Cow at my local Captain Skippy's Happy Fun House Restaurant and Playroom (Where Playing Becomes Fun!).

Perks: I don't have to deal with people on a face-to-face level. The mask (Daisy the Cow is cross eyed and yet can still manage to see as she "plays" her guitar in the party room) tells everyone that I'm happy happy all the time, and yet inside the shrunken husk that is the now-soulless me, I can be just as ticked-off as I want to be.

Cons: I HAVE TO WEAR A FREAKING COW SUIT AND WORK AT CAPTAIN SKIPPY'S HAPPY FUN HOUSE RESTAURANT AND PLAYROOM (Where Playing Becomes Fun!). There is no worse punishment than being a drone for the masses at a place where the felt animals pretend to play the tambourine and sing the "Fa la la Birthday Song" to a roomful of suburban ankle-biters. Don't get me wrong, I like kids and all that, but the kind of parents that let their offspring have a party at C.S.H.F.H.R.P. are not the kind of young uns I want to hang out with on a daily basis. Twice already I had had my pay docked for being "too happy" and scaring the seven year old Colby Masterson, who had actually had too much cake and Slice and passed out from a sugar overdose during the second rendition of the "Fa la la Birthday Song."

Apparently, I would have to pay for the doctors' bills.

I shoved the costume in a little further, then used my foot to kick it in. Unnecessary, maybe, but cathartic in the extreme.

As I kicked the door closed, I imagined it was Wickham's face, and it was only through my complete lack of anything resembling muscle that I didn't crack the front glass.

That "meeting" two weeks ago had lasted four hours, and I still had no idea what had happened.

It was driving me crazy. I couldn't look at the clock without remembering how often I'd glanced at the time during the day. I couldn't see Lydia or Rowan without experiencing the desire to strap them to a chair in an all-white room with a light shining in their eyes and interrogate them. I couldn't eat breakfast without wondering if they had gone out to eat or walked through the park.

And I couldn't freaking wash my clothes without wondering how much longer we afford Laundromats after the baby came.

I wanted to know. There was something going on that they weren't telling me, and I was climbing the walls imagining what it could be and what it couldn't be. I mean, it was not only me who had been right about Wickham, and had done everything I could to try and get things right, but it was me who had gotten a job to support everyone, and had completely screwed up her personal life in order to get back to her friends.

Damn straight I was self-righteous. It felt like I had a right to know what the hell was going on, even if I didn't approve. Up until now, all I had been told was that Wickham was paying a huge child support payment, and that Lydia's mom had "rethought her previous stance" and was going to help support the kid too.

Which undoubtedly is a lot of information, but there was one vital piece missing.

That, of course, being how the hell had Wickham a.) been convinced by a fifteen-year-old pregnant woman and my teddy-bear cousin to actually take responsibility for the baby without having to press charges; b.) coaxed Mrs. Marlow into taking Lydia back; and c.) raised/stolen/earned (like that was likely) the cash to pay the freakin' enormous amount of child support every month.

I'd tried asking the question, or course, and gotten lots of eye-rolling, fake-coughing, oh-would-you-look-at-the-timing, but no answers at all.

Does this strike anyone as weird and ungrateful? I mean, okay, so I'm not entitled to know every last detail of Lydia's life or anything, but I had at least hoped she would let me in, when I had done all I had to help her out.

Though it looked like my working at Captain Skippy's was no longer necessary anyway.

Dammit! I give up one thing for another, and it turns out I didn't have to in the first place. Where's the fairness in that? What happened to justice?

Not that I'm saying justice would be served if Lydia had actually needed me to keep my job to support her because Wickham had decided to pull a runaway daddy on us. I just—was feeling sorry for myself again.

I seemed to be doing that a lot more than usual. Now that clinch time was over, I'd had time to start daydreaming, and since there was one thing I wanted, he was the thing that occupied my thoughts when I drifted of in the middle of Daisy the Cow's Big Dance or when Lydia started talking about which color to paint the baby's room.

I couldn't get over the thought that I had screwed something up, something good and happy and right, and that it was all my fault. I couldn't get away from my burning need to apologize to him, to explain things.

Not to mention the fact that I was really craving alcohol. Apparently, I was more fond of it than I had thought, and now I would start thinking about it so much I could barely stop. I would shake sometimes with wanting it, that's how bad it was.

Frankly, I was terrified. I needed to quit drinking for my own peace of mind, but the fact that I still needed it meant I was weak, didn't it? And knowing that wasn't doing anything for my peace of mind. And the thought of going through this alone was even worse.

Because how could I tell Jen that I desperately wanted to down the next bottle of Grey Goose that I came across? How could I say to Lydia that I needed some attention when she needed all the support we could give? How could I admit to my mother that I was weak enough to be an alcoholic?

I couldn't, that's how. I was terrified, and I was ashamed, two extremely teen-girl things that, when combined, create an effect so lethal that Hollywood scriptwriters bow down to it year after year.

I viciously slammed on the "Start" button, and sat down, trying to absorb myself in the soap spin-cycle like they do in all those indie movies.

"This might just be a random observation, Liz," Rowan said, looking up from White Dwarf, "but it's just possible that you have unresolved anger issues with the cow costume." Rowan's laundry was sitting next to him, waiting for me to be done so that I could teach him for the umpteenth time which colors go in which spin cycles.

"It's not the cow costume, Rowan. Okay, I lied, it is partly the cow costume. The rest of it is the fact that I'm deliberately being kept in the dark about something I don't deserve to be kept in the dark about."

Rowan sighed and put down the magazine, getting ready for a big, mushy heart-to-heart session. "It's not spiteful, Lizzy, it's just that we agreed not to tell anyone, including you. I know it's wicked unfair that you get shut out when you did all that stuff to help, but I have to keep my promise to them, okay?"

"To them? Who's them?"

"No, Lizzy."

"Rowan—"

"No!"

"But I need to under—"

"I'm sorr—"

"That's not enough! Can't you tell me why Wickham agreed—"

"No, okay? I promised—"

"This is really important to me! If it's not that important to you…"

"Hey! I never said that!"

"Well, you're acting like it's true…"

"No, I'm not! I care, I just can't…"

"Look, if it's all a really big joke to you, then—"

"It's not a big joke I just…"

"Because personally, I don't think it's funny—"

"I JUST PROMISED WILL DARCY I WOULDN'T TELL YOU!"

"What?"

"Oh crap."

"Yeah, bigtime, buddy. You're going to have to explain a thing or two."

"But I promised…"

"Nice try."

He looked at me and sighed, realizing that he wasn't going to get out of this one. "Okay, so here's what happened…"

* * *

Reader's Digest Version: Wickham and Lydia do the nasty. Lydia is pregnant, tells Wickham. Wickham dumps Lydia after mother dumps Lydia. Angst. Jen calls me, tells me news, I flip out, get drunk, yell at Darcy, fly back to America. Darcy flies back to America, finds Wickham, and persuades him to reconsider his stance on the matter. At stake is a high-paying, cushy job at a company Will owns, and no charges pressed against Wickham for the statutory rape of both Lydia Marlow and Georgiana Darcy. So Wickham gets what he wants and can give Lydia what she wants at relatively no cost to himself. Darcy forced to swallow pride and therefore makes Rowan and Lydia promise not to tell me, which is unsurprising after the way I treated him.

The End.

This is what I wanted, I told myself as I lugged my laundry back to the house. This is what I wanted, and this is what I got. But I had never considered the possibility that Will, not I, would be forced to humble himself and give Wickham a chance, that Will, not I, would be the one on whose shoulders this all fell.

It's weird to feel like you should have more responsibility, and not having it. I could have been, and probably should have been, relieved. Will had considerably more assets to work with, and could bribe anyone to do anything. I, however, would have to find someone with a deep-seated love of bubblegum chains to get any leverage at all. Will also had the power to keep tabs on Wickham, while the Bennet Scooby gang was not so well organized.

But the thing was, I didn't feel better. First of all, I was almost ungratefully unhappy that Will had shouldered all the responsibility; the first real responsibility I had ever taken in my life. Rather than be like "golly Will, thank you so much for being someone who can convince Wickham, because I really can't" I was like "Why did you have to do it alone, kid? I AM responsible, you know, I could have helped you."

Even more than that, though, I was humiliated. If I had been able to handle it, Will would never have had to offer partnership to the man who had abused his sister. But of course that would have been impossible, because I had no money, and that was the only thing talking in this situation. Will was admittedly the only person who could have solved this, and I felt sorrier for him than I ever had for anyone.

And I was confused, for God's sake. I mean, I yelled at him, I blamed him, I had mistreated him before, and still he comes, in a really freakin' cliché way, to my rescue? Does he still love me? Does that mean that he still wants to talk to me? To see me? What did it mean?

Because even with all the strange emotions and absolutely unfounded resentment I had toward him/the situation/the world at large, I loved him. Hearing Rowan's story, I had been able to picture him sitting at the Panera table, cool and collected on the outside but secretly on edge, unsure of what to say, angry beyond anything he had felt before. I could hear his voice (though which accent he had chosen to use, I didn't know and couldn't very well ask) commanding attention, laying it all down for everyone involved. I could see his hands clenching underneath the table whenever Wickham spoke or smiled, could see his dark eyes flickering over Lydia's tiny face, her pigtails, her baby pink dress. The more Rowan told me, the clearer the picture became, until it was strong enough to follow me home from the Laundromat, to make me gasp painfully for air as I refused point-blank to cry.

I really did love him. Not "like," not "fond of," I didn't think he was "cute."

As Cher would say, I was "butt-crazy" in love with Will.

Maybe we had a chance. Maybe this was all some sign he was trying to send to me, to tell me that whatever had happened didn't matter. I mean, if he had managed to like me even when I was a complete bitch to him, would one drunken rage really do us in?

But I would never know unless he came to Boston again, because I definitely didn't have enough money for a new T pass, let alone a trip to New York or Scotland or London or Paris or wherever he was. If he was still interested, it would have to be up to him to make the first move. I didn't even have his phone number.

Ahhh, the information age…

I hauled my basket up our front steps, knee-juggling it while I tried to find my key. Unfortunately for my future as the world's best knee-juggler, Kat opened the door for me, grabbing my basket from my hands. I could hear shrieking in the background, which, while not unusual in the Bennet-Marlow-Hammond household, was nonetheless both attention-getting and annoying.

"What the hell's going on?" I asked, closing the door behind me.

"Charlie Bingleton's back. Where's Rowan?"

"Comic book store. Charlie's back in Boston?"

"Yeah, man. He came back last night, wicked late," Kat set our laundry down on the floor and glared at Mary, who was busy spinning in circles and jumping up and down.

"What's she so excited about?"

"OmigodomigodCharlieisbackthisisfantasticthey'regonnagetmarriedandhavebabiesandlivehappilyeverafterandletmestayattheirhouseandshopwiththemandI'llmeetarichboyandwe'llallberichtogetherthisisamazingI'msoexcitedI'msohappyIcouldcry!"

"Well that cleared that up," I said.

"So much for selfless joy," said Kat, smirking.

"Where's Jen?"

"She's upstairs. Oh, your dad's here, by the way."

I froze halfway up the stairs. "Does mom know?"

"Aerobics class, Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Woot. Thanks, Kat." I walked down the hallway and opened Jen's door. Jen was sitting on her bed, apparently having trouble tying her shoe, while my dad stood at the window. They looked around as I came in, and I ran to hug dad as Jen gave up on her shoes.

"Lizzy, love, you look three feet shorter!"

"Same goes to you, you damn leprechaun. Hope you haven't been staying away on purpose?"

"At first, no, and then when yer mam came, yep."

"Well, you're braving the harpy today, old man, I admire you."

"Ah aerobics, that faithful friend."

"Heard the news, I suppose?" I asked, settling myself next to Jen, who was now staring at the impeccable knees of her jeans.

"We have indeed, which was partly why I came here. I wanted to meet this young man of Jen's—"

"Dad he's not my—"

"Don't believe her, da, he's totally in lo—"

"Quiet, Lizzy!"

"Girls! Let me continue, please! I came to meet yer Charlie, Jen love, and to see if I could wrap me hands around that damn Wickham's neck, which seems impossible. But I also came to give you a message for yer mother—"

"What?" Jen and I goggled at him. He'd never given us messages since they had stopped talking to each other when I was twelve.

"Right. Tell her she can stop sending me back those damn papers, because she's as good as divorced anyway. Why not make it official?"

Jen and I looked at each other, lost for words. For anyone who's gone through divorce, you'll know that there is a huge difference between separated and divorced, even when the separated couple has had nothing to do with each other for nine years.

Dad could read our faces, for he knelt down in front of us, and took one of our hands in each other his.

"It has to be better this way, girls. We're not right for each other, and we never were. That doesn't mean," he said, correctly interpreting the tears that came to Jen's eyes, "that I regret having you girls. You were what made it worthwhile for fourteen years, loves, and I know your mother feels the same." Here I snorted. "What, Lizzy?"

"Having Jen was worthwhile for mom. But me? I'm just a big disappointment and easy scapegoat for her."

"Lizzy, that's not—" Jen started, but Dad cut her off.

"You're right, you were a scapegoat," I nodded, staring at my lap. "But that doesn't mean she hates you. You're just too much like me, and she never really got a chance to rail at me. You were there all the time, like I never was, and your mother was never very patient. She blamed you, and you blamed her, and now here we are. It _is_ all my fault, girls, and I'm sorry."

"We'll tell her," Jen said quietly. It was weird, at twenty three and twenty one we were crying over a divorce that should have happened when we were twelve and ten.

"Get married for love, girls, and never settle or handle your future rashly. If you're obsessed or infatuated, chances are you'll end up in a bar on yer beautiful, wonderful daughter's birthday just to escape yer spouse's anger, or miss yer kid's first bike-ride because ye were hiding from a family picnic. Love, total love, absolute love, mad love, whole love, true love, or nothing. Understand?"

We nodded. Dad hugged both of us, and then went to stand by the window.

"So, Charlie Bingleton is here then?"

"That's what they're saying on the street," I said, wiping my eyes. I glanced at Jen, who was now blushing and breathing strangely, like all her organs were in danger of falling out of her body and onto the floor. I looked back at Dad, who winked at me, and said, "Are you pleased, then, Jennifer?"

"Why should I be pleased or otherwise? It makes no difference to me." She was trying to tie her shoe and failing miserably. "At least he doesn't have any women with him, because then we'd have to throw a party or actually talk to them. This way, we can go about our separate business and we'll both be fine."

"Ah yes, fine. That beautiful word," Dad said.

"Don't lie to yourself Jen, you're still in love with him."

"I am not! And anyway, that doesn't really matter."

"You watch," I said. "I bet you anything it'll matter, and not just to you."

"Want to test your theory, Lizzy?" said Dad, looking out the window.

"Um, sure, but why now?"

"Well, I thought it would be excellent timing, considering he's coming up the walk."

I beamed at Jen, who looked liked she'd been hit over the head with that troll from Harry Potter's club. Slowly, she reached up to smooth her hair and check her clothing, still not speaking.

"How do I look?" she asked, her voice still dreamy and distracted.

"Like you've been beat with the pretty stick, now go!" I tied her shoes hurriedly, and pushed her off the bed.

"There's someone with him," said Dad, and though I couldn't see his face, I could tell he was grinning evilly.

"Who?"

"That old friend o' yers, Lizzy-love. Mr. Darcy."

I got up and ran to the window as Dad shepherded Jen downstairs. There, standing on the pathway, looking up at my window, was Will Darcy.

He wasn't smiling.


	37. Whalers on the Moon

A/N: Hello everyone! This is the first of the last three/ four chapters (I'm not sure how many yet, so don't eat me if I'm wrong), and I'm getting very sad, because I have to end something I've been working on for three years now. But no worries, it will be done.

I do want to keep writing, and I have some ideas, but so far I've had writer's block about how to start them. Anybody have ideas about stories they want to see?

I'm going to be a.) really annoying and b.) in denial about actually needing to write the chapter by answering some reviews. Now's the time to jump on the bandwagon and review if you never have before, because I'm almost done and I hope you love me enough by now to let me be greedy and want more of you. Natty shall stop laughing now. I know it's far-fetched, but I would like to get 1000 reviews by the end of the story. If you did review the last chapter, please feel free to feel special and read my reply. Danka.

Mouse: First of all, thanks a bajillion for being the constructive criticism kid. Not enough people do it, and I'm really glad you're trying to help me make my story better. However, my dear friend, I think I'm going to differ with you in opinion on this one. I realize that my writing for Lizzy is completely the opposite of subtle, and that's the point. You hit the nail right on the head when you said that Lizzy isn't subtle. She's not into description, she's into emotion. Lizzy's the kind of girl who is brutally honest with herself, to the point of being wrong, and so I think that rather than hide behind my method of writing, Lizzy is better represented by keeping it blatant and blunt. It's her character, it's who she is. In my other stories, though, you're absolutely right, I can be, and am, more descriptive. Just different media, that's all.

Berry Scary: You can have all the money I have in the world for your bills…all two dollars and twelve cents of it. Don't spend it all in one place, now.

Silvestria: I'm glad someone commented on it, because I thought I was being brilliant and no one else said anything. Thanks!

XxTristan: As long as I have a foot in both camps, I'm cool with being horrible, evil, and totally awesome at the same time.

Magewhisperer: Exactly. There was no kiss, because it's a prelude to a kiss. Which means that somewhere in the near future, there just may be a kiss. Jeez, instant gratification… Cheers.

Kiki: What does Tiy mean?

Check6: If there was no lovey-dovey crap, would it really be that satisfying? But you know me well enough that it's not gonna go all "Oh John," "Oh, Marsha" on you, now is it?

TheBrassPotato: Ah shucks, a jig just for me. I also read all Harry Potter on the 16th, and cried, and called my friend Tessandra, and cried, and talked to my brother, and cried.

Anamika29: I agree, they never should have been married. But then, they never would have had Lizzy, and none of the brilliance would ever have happened. Funny old world, innit?

Percyismine, Lucifer'sLair,anti-botox, Nat the Pheonix, Li Hudson, mistikalolo, cloris, mairenifh, nebulia: Why thank you, loves, same to you, peace, love and happiness.

Forgotten-kiss: Well, I don't really know how much longer I can go without having "Fame Whore" tattooed on my forehead. In Austen's version I think it ends pretty much where it should, but I may have a tiny epilogue to wrap things up. I don't know, I'll see where it takes me.

Belligerent-road-pylon: I know, I saw it and I was amazed. My brother flipped out, he thought the hook-up scene was brilliant.

Hunni07: Hey, I'm not a horse, lady, I gotta go at my own pace. Cheers.

TriGemini: I always look forward to your reviews, because you always know exactly what's going on with the characters. You do me proud, grasshopper…

Severus-Fan: Well, if that's your pen name, then I understand why you were angry. Sorry, kid, that's gotta suck for you. Thank you for helping me with my Shine-envy complex (I get jealous, and then I can't control myself, and things fly around on their own, it's crazy), I need the confirmation.

RoonilWazlib: New Penname, eh? Always happy to expand a HP fan's fic horizons, as I am a bit (cough) of one myself, and I understand…too intense, and they seem almost idiotically happy now.

Gia: I'm hurt, you skimmed my chapters? Why? I didn't think they sucked? Maybe the Will-free environment? , which, though Tess may laugh, is the only way I can describe my sadness.

White Camellia: Mission Trip? Where'd you go? I personally went to my local CVS on the 15th at 11:57 and browsed the store only to find that they didn't display any paraphernalia of Harry Potter, then I bothered the poor Russian girl at the desk who had no idea what I was talking about, and got funny looks from the kind of people who come to CVS at midnight on Friday. Apparently, it was way past my bedtime.

Elfwood: please don't die, then you won't see the ending! Thanks for being so exuberant, you made my day (it's hot and humid here, and it sucks, ask TheBrassPotato if you don't believe me).

Okay, so that was significantly longer than I though it would be. For all you wonderful non-reviewers who just skipped that part, here you go!

And if you feel, like I feel Sugah, come on, OH come on, to

Chapter 36: Whalers on the Moon

It took me about ten minutes to get down the stairs. And this is not because I was primping in the bathroom because when you have nothing to primp the whole "I'd better look good for mah man" thing becomes a bit irrelevant. No, it took me about ten minutes to get down the stairs because for a little while I could barely walk and/or breathe, let alone do some dangerous domestic mountaineering all by my lonesome. It took a whole lot of banister-clutching, deep-breathing, one-stair-at-a-timing, talk-to-myselfing determination to get to the bottom.

"Lizzy? Are you all right?" Charlie asked, and it occurred to me then that I had forgotten an important geographical aspect of my house: the bottom of the stairs is in the living room, in plain view of the people I was not prepared for. Therefore (prepared for, therefore, it's all so poetic), everyone, and I mean _everyone_, had witnessed my banister-clutching, deep-breathing, one-stair-at-a-timing, talk-to-myselfing determination since the seventh stair from the top.

So much for preparation and Audrey Hepburn-like grace.

"Uhh, yeah," I said, firing back with my ever-present wit, "I, umm, twisted my ankle on the way home today, and I was—"

"So Charlie," said Kat, stepping in and saving me from myself, "why'd you come back? We thought you were going to sell the place."

I limped over to the couch on the other side of the room from where Darcy stood, arms folded. I didn't look at him any higher than his shins. This could be for two reasons: firstly, that his shins were perhaps the most beautiful part of his and any other male body, though underappreciated, and secondly I knew that if I looked any higher (at, say, his eyes/face) I would see that he knew I was lying about the whole ankle thing, and right now I was like a teenage boy with a beer can hidden under his pillow.

Will not think about alcohol, will not think about alcohol, will not think about alcohol…

"Well, I was," Charlie was saying, as I repeated my new mantra to myself, "but I realized that I like it here, what with all the company and the militant Irish population and the bars that close at two and the company," here he looked at Jen, who looked right back before blushing and staring down at her lap. "And I wanted to see the old place again. By the way sir," he said, addressing my father, "I didn't mean to insult you with the whole militant Irish population thing, I'm sorry if I did."

"Don't mention it, son. I am militant and Irish, and I populate this general area, so you're okay."

This was interesting. Dad like Charlie, Charlie was suddenly both fluent in English around Jen and eloquent to boot, and Jen was obviously (more than usual) in love with Charlie.

Eeeexcellent…And I mean that in every Mr. Burns finger-tapping maniacal hand gesture sort of way. This was all going according to The Plan (the capital letters make it more important), and I, the Supreme Mugwump of all things Bennet, was very pleased.

"Oh, great. Thanks. Right," suave Charlie to stuttering Charlie in 2.6 seconds. An all-new record for the Boston area, even beating out my best time by one tenth of a second (of course for me, that was assuming I was ever suave to begin with, which, of course, is laughable).

"How long are you staying this time?" I heard myself ask.

See? Like I said, the whole suave bit was never my gig.

"Well, I'm not really…see, we haven't made any kind of plans, I don't even know how long Will…A few weeks at least. Definitely a few weeks, at the very least."

I glanced at Will again, this time looking him in the eyes. He glanced away from where my sister and his friend were smiling at each other like there was no tomorrow, and caught my eyes. And even though he had no expression on his face, I couldn't look away.

Lizzy Bennet, good sister, awful debater, charming socialite, deer in the headlights.

But for once, I didn't really care that I was making a complete idiot of myself (which I am by default, even in a situation where no one is paying attention to me, so I can assume that the old rule was true in this case as well), because I got to see him again, and he wasn't pointing a shotgun at me or siccing his dogs at me or thrusting a restraining order in my face. And while he didn't look particularly happy to see me, at least he wasn't threatening to chew my face off and feed me to the bears.

Ahhh, life's little victories…

I tried to smile at him, but managed only to hitch one side of my mouth a little higher than the other like my friend Marcus's Cloppy the Horse costume from Captain Skippy's. He took no notice of my face-shape-changing, just looking at me without even batting an eye.

Way to be cool, Will. Big points. Cool, robot impassion had replaced human warmth and emotion. Marvel would be proud.

I think I'd prefer that stupid eyebrow shrug thing to nothing.

But I'd prefer nothing to nothing. If that makes sense at all.

Just when things were getting nice and nice in the Charlie-Jen department, the door opened, and in walked the Blair Witch and Maleficent and Kathy Morningside and Dolores Umbridge all rolled into one.

My mother stood right inside the door, goggling the scene in front of her.

You can't blame her, though, because if I was her, I would have been freaked out to see my estranged husband, two daughters, nephew, his girlfriend, a pregnant fifteen year old, and her twin sister sitting in a living room with two of the richest men in the world, one of whom happens to be in love with her daughter.

All very confusing and angsty. You can't blame her.

"Hi, mom," I said, standing up and offering her my seat. Charlie and my father had stood up when she came in, but my poor father had no idea what to do now, seeing as how they hadn't spoken to each other for two years straight. Out of character though it may have been, I was offering her the chance to get most of the room and a coffee table in between the two of them.

But she didn't move.

Instead she stood there like a statue or a really lifelike garden gnome, the kind with the jolly faces that look evil when you stare at them too long, and gaped at the room around her, trying to find something to say.

But you all know my mother; she wasn't quiet for long. Her eyes fell on Charlie, her lungs filled with air, her mouth opened, and words came out. Shrill, overexcited words.

"Why Charlie! I am _so _excited that you're here! You simply have _no idea_! This is _wonderful timing_, you must be staying in Boston then! _Wonderful!..._And er—"she looked at Will, "Darcy, is it? Thank you for stopping by, I'm glad you could fit us into your schedule."

_Oh you idiotic, tactless woman. _

"Mrs. Bennet," said Will, whose jaw twitched but who otherwise remained inscrutable. "How are you?"

"Fine. I'm fine. Bur _tell me_, Charlie, _how _is everything going for you? Where have you been? Tell me everything!" And she settled down on the arm of the sofa, right next to my father.

Awkward.

In the little silence that followed, I made a decision. Yes, I know, you all stand in shock and wonder that I am capable of split-second decisions that don't require endless internal monologues, but there are some cases that I can decide what to do without a whole lot of deliberation.

This was one of them.

I reached down and grabbed the keys to Lydia's new car, and said "Actually, mom, I was hoping you could come shopping with me today."

A word of advice, duckies: Sometimes split-second decisions can be very painful to you. So the whole inner monologue is actually a good idea in a whole lot of scenarios.

Everyone in the room, especially my mother, looked at me like I had three heads and a hunchback and an entire city full of people who sang and danced to the same number in perfect harmony. I snuck a glace over at Will, and for the first time his face had softened, and he wasn't Darcy-bot anymore. In that split second, he was the man who had looked at me while I played piano in Pemberley and had told me he loved me at Rosings Park. Hopefully, by the smile he was telling me that I was doing the right thing and not dooming my mother or myself to eternal torment.

So I kept smiling and shrugged and said, "Yeah, I wanted to go get some things for the house, and you know exactly what we need and I thought it would be fun if we went together. Sorry," I added to the shell-shocked and thoroughly relieved living room congregation, "but you guys were kind of a surprise."

And while Charlie assured me it was fine and that he, in fact, apologized for interrupting all our plans, my mother smiled at me and said, "Okay."

I have dug a grave for myself and stepped into it. Like hell the road to, well, hell, is paved with good intentions. It's a bumpy ride full of pit falls for me to stumble into while trying to keep my sister's love-life intact and relatively embarrassment-free.

The room was quiet as I made my way around the coffee table and over everyone's legs. I winked at me father, who, like everyone else, knew how anomalous this was.

Laugh it up, fuzzball. Just let Jen hit a homerun.

You know, in all ways that does not denote sexual contact. Because siblings and sex are not a good combination. At all.

Going past Charlie's chair, I tripped and fell over the corner of the rug like the ever-graceful she-goddess of love and laughter and butterflies, kittens, and backgammon (sheshbesh) that I am. An arm grabbed me before I did a face-plant characteristic of graceful she-goddesses of yadada and backgammon. I looked at the hand, whose knuckles were bruised and purple, to the arm, to the shoulder, to the face.

Yes'm, m'ladies and gents. The only person in the room with the kind of strength to catch me safely milliseconds before breaking my nose on our horse-pattered shag rug was none other than William T. Darcy.

He was smiling now.

I smiled, and would have winked, but a "ping!" similar to the cartoon kind when the light bulb appears above the character's head had just gone off in my brain.

"Your knuckles," I said quietly as he helped to my feet, and I took a little self-deprecating bow to the rest of the room so they'd go back to their business, "they're bruised."

He looked down and self-consciously wiggled his fingers into a fist, then put it behind his back.

"Hazards of the trade," he said, his eyes still laughing.

"Indeed. Well, you have fun here. I'm going to get coasters."

"That was your shopping plan?"

"Well I didn't really have a plan, maestro. Whenever I got out with my mother, she tries to make me buy coasters, so here we are. Have a nice day."

Still smiling, suddenly ridiculously happy for no apparent reason on the verge of giggling like a short-skirted school-girl, I left the house, got in the car with my mom, and drove off to buy coasters from the Martha Stewart Living Collection.

Ain't life grand?

* * *

"And this is the first time we've gone shopping together in I don't know how long, this is a fantastic chance for us to catch up on things with each other, because I have really no idea how long it's been since we last talked and it's been so hard to see you go around and not know what's going on with you, don't you think it's been hard not knowing what's up with me?"

"This is the first time we've ever been shopping, we've never had a real conversation, and you know what's going on with me because you live in the same house."

Silence.

"Elizabeth, you need to turn on your turn signal sooner than that, they're not expecting you to make that turn!"

"This is Massachusetts, mom, it's their own fault that they're not prepared. I mean I could pull a U-ey right here—"

"Don't you dare! Elizabeth, stop! Stop!"

"And see? Only one guy honked his horn. Seriously, they take more offense at stop lights than we do at illegal turns… Are you okay?"

"Do…you have…a death wish?"

"Do you need a paper bag or something? Because if you're gonna start hyperventilating..."

"You almost killed us!"

"Stop worrying, it was almost completely safe, and besides, we were going the wrong way, I had to turn around somehow."

"This is why we don't talk! You never listen to me!"

Pause.

"Yeah, well it takes one to know one, sweetheart."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you never listen to me either."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course—"

"You mean like last week? Yeah, you earn big points for both listening to me _and_ believing in me—"

"Last week was—"

"—Indicative of all of our discussions and conversations and meetings. That's pretty much the way we always function, minus the part about me being responsible for getting Lydia pregnant, something I still can't get around the absolute physical impossibility of—"

"But you're—"

"Not the oldest in the house, or in my family. I'm not supposed to be the role model, and I shouldn't be because up until a couple weeks ago, I've never worked a day in my life. I'm not particularly responsible. But you continue to expect me to be the one who takes care of everyone's else's problems. I can't do that, mom. Sometimes I can help them with their problems, or give them advice, but I have to live my own life, too. I can't be held responsible for their actions. But you never understood that."

"Yes, I did!"

"No, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did! What about your piano career? _You _wanted that!"

"No, I wanted to _play _piano. I didn't want to be some talent whore whose entire life hangs on my instrument! I wanted friends other than Jen and Rowan, and for teachers to not smile pityingly at me whenever I walked down the hallways. _That's _what I wanted. You never listened to me when I said I hated it."

"I wanted what was best for you!"

"Oh, good, I'll remember that for when I have kids. 'Honey, I know you're socially awkward and have no friends younger than twenty-five and are absolutely miserable in what you're doing, but that's okay, because I'm your mother, and I know what's best for you.'"

"I don't need your sarcasm."

"And I don't need your censure! Dammit, mom, you've always told me I was wrong and you're right, but this time I'm telling you you're wrong! I'm twenty-one years old and I make my own decisions, and I'll be damned if I'm going to conform to your ideals of who I should be. And anyway, we both know who you want me to be, don't we?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Jen, mom. You want me to be Jen. Another perfect child, sweet, smart, pretty, popular, polite, kind, who always listens to you. Sorry to disappoint, but I can't be her, and I never will be, and I don't want to be."

"I don't want you to be Jen, you idiot! I wanted you to be special! I wanted one of my children to have an amazing, special talent, and to be somebody and go somewhere! Jen's gorgeous, but she doesn't have the kind of talent you have!"

"What's wrong with me on a regular basis, then? Am I not somebody? Without that professional music career, will I not go anywhere? Does my not having special powers or accomplishments suddenly mean that I'm not even worth the effort, just the blame of it? I went my own way to get away from you, but you just yo-yoed back and sucker-punched me with all the guilt you had building up. I don't need it, and I never deserved it."

"You disappointed me, Lizzy. What was I supposed to do, just let it slide and smile and be happy while you throw your life away?"

"Yes, mom. You _were _supposed to forget it, and let me do something I wanted to do. I wanted to go to college, and be an English major. This year, I wanted to take time off to get a job and actually do something for myself and my roommates. I made those decisions for good reasons, not 'just because,' so maybe I am more responsible than I thought."

"Well, I'm sorry if we don't see eye to eye on that."

"We never did see eye to eye. I've been sorry about that my entire life. Better late then never, I guess."

"Shut up, Elizabeth."

* * *

I drove us back to the house an hour and a half later, Lydia's car weighed down with twelve boxes of coasters and three placemat sets. As I turned off the engine, I looked over at my mom, who had been determinedly filing her nails for over twenty minutes.

"Mom."

Nothing. Not even a flicker.

"Mom, we're never going to get anywhere if you don't talk to me."

Nothing.

"I know you're disappointed about Dad, and I know I remind you of him too much, but I don't want to spend the rest of my young adult life being mad at you."

"Then don't."

"Two way street, baby cakes. You have to let things go, too."

Nothing.

Sighing, I unhooked my seatbelt, and opened the door. Then I leaned across the stick shift, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Cheer up, mom."

Before I got out of the car, I saw her hand go up to where my lips had been.

A/N: Okay, so that didn't go as far as I wanted it to, but that's okay, it was a long chapter anyway, even without the review responses.

I saw "Hamlet" on the Boston Common this week (twice, actually, because I loved it). It's a program run by the Wang Center that sponsors a run of a Shakespeare show over the summer, which is free and outside and always really good. Jeffrey Donovan, the guy from "Touching Evil" played Hamlet, and it was fantastic, and I was so excited to catch the last show yesterday. I'm out-dorking myself right now, so you're going to have to forgive me, but if any of you come to Boston in the summer in the future, and like Shakespeare, you should check this out, because it's really cool.

So again, because this story is almost over, if you haven't reviewed it ever, or for a really long time, it would be fantastic if you could do it sometime in the near future. Cheers!


	38. Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog

A/N: Thanks to all you lovelies who reviewed, it made my day complete, especially because everyone did longer ones than they usually do. As for my typos: Yeah, I made a big one there, it was _supposed _to say "Dad liked Charlie" but it didn't go that way unfortunately. Also, I agree with the whole Boston horn honking thing, but it was for story purposes, so what the hey.

I loved Harry Potter 6. Some people were like "it was all talk and no action," but that was _the point_. Up 'til now we've had a lot of action and a lot of plot advancement, and this was a break from that, plus all that information that was totally necessary and really interesting.

With the whole "Marvel" thing, I was talking about Marvel comics, not Marvin the martian. Sorry about that.

I live northwest of Boston in a strip-mall suburby town called Bedford. It's in between Concord (pronounced like "conquered" for all you out-of-New-Englanders, never "Con-cord" like the jet) and Lexington. Not many people know there actually is a town between Concord and Lexington, but I swear to God it exists. We are not the Brigadoon of the Greater Boston Area.

And with more ado than I should have had and less ado than I could have had, here we are…

Here I am, once again, at

Chapter 37: Jeremiah was a Bullfrog

I let myself in the house quietly, not wanting to disturb any studying/lovemaking/Baby-Einstein-Reading shenanigans that were going on. I expected those to be going on. What I _didn't _expect, however, was seeing Charlie kneeling down in front of Jen, who was crying and saying "yes, yes, yes" like Faith Hill in The Stepford Wives.

Obviously, I missed something.

Also obviously, I was intruding on something. I tried to sneak into the kitchen, but for all that they're called "sneakers," they don't actually help with sneaking in any way, shape, or form.

"Lizzy!" Jen said, and I turned around to stammer something along the lines of "I'll never do it again, just please don't hurt me," when I remembered two integral things:

Firstly, that this was Jen, who would cry if she killed an ant by accident;

And secondly, that both she and Charlie were smiling insanely. Oh, and Charlie had been on his knees and she'd been saying "yes" a lot, which unless she was auditioning for a shampoo commercial soon, was big.

BIG.

"You—you two—No way—this is…Holy crap!" Was pretty much all I could manage, but at least I didn't need to be eloquent just now. Jen burst into laughter again, and hugged me, and jumped up and down, and hugged me, and I smiled at Charlie over her shoulder, and took his hand, and all in all it was one of the happiest moments of my life so far.

"Wait, Jen, let me see this beast," I said, reaching for her left hand and holding her still. The ring that had been slipped on was definitely a Jen kind of ring: sparkly, pretty, diamondy, slightly pink, and not too big. "This is fantastic,' I said, and I meant it, even though I wasn't really talking about the ring.

"Thank you," they said together, and then embraced each other like there was no tomorrow.

Cute, huh? Really chick-flicky, and marvelously cheesy and romantic, but adorable and sweet, too.

Being a third wheel is weird, not to mention uncomfortable. But eventually they peeled themselves off each other and had come back to earth enough to look sheepish and insanely happy, and I said, "Charlie, our mom is outside in the car, maybe you want to take her the news yourself. I think if you send Jen you'd have to scrape mom off her with a spatula."

"Okay, Lizzy," he said eagerly, then smiled at Jen and muttered a quick "goodbye honey," before leaving, like he wasn't going to be right outside for two minutes.

Like I said, cheesy, but cute.

When he was gone, Jen and I smiled at each other, and Jen said, "Oh Lizzy, I'm so happy! He said he's loved me all this time, and he missed me when he was away, and he didn't know anything about me being in New York or he would have gone to see me immediately, and he couldn't stop thinking about me! He loves me, Lizzy, he really does, and I can't believe how lucky I am! I wish everyone could be as lucky as I am, or as happy, or as—I have no idea what, but this is the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me!" She threw her arms around me again and I pulled her in for another hug, and we stood there, laughing and crying and although I was ridiculously jealous of her happiness, of her marrying the man she loves, I wasn't sprouting horns or turning green. This was about her, not me, and her joy could never in any way be seen as reproaching mine. She was my beautiful, kind, generous, warm, and loving older sister who deserved happiness and love just as much as I did, if not more because of her honorary position as Permanent Good Samaritan of the World.

"Jen?" I said, when I could breathe again.

"Yeah?" she wiped the tears out from under her eyes.

"Just promise not to make your bridesmaid's gowns bright yellow or lavender or sea foam green, okay? Because as much as I love you now, that's how much I'll hate you if you pull a Charlotte and put me in pastel."

"Done. No lavender and green theme, I got it."

"You know I'm happy for you, don't you? You know this is fabulous for everyone? Because it's amazing, Jen."

She smiled down at me and kissed me on both cheeks and said, "I know. Without you having to say it, I know. And don't be sad, Liz. You're not alone. Take it from me," she added, spreading her arms wide and then letting them fall, "good things do happen to those who wait."

* * *

I know that was really Disney and packed a whole lot of "if you believe in yourself, anything's possible," for modern day living outside of Pleasantville, but you have to give the girl a little bit of credit. First of all, she had correctly read the tiny hint of jealousy and sadness on my face, and hadn't tried to explain it away the way she usually did. Secondly, she was delirious and giddy and speaking in odd, rambling sentences that didn't have subjects or verbs or, in some cases, words. Third and lastly, she's my sister, and if you don't give her some slack, I'll reach over and smack you.

Yay for families.

So again there was wedding bustle, because having been apart for so long made them suddenly need to be married right away, which meant flower appointments, dress searching, church bookings, and the bane of my existence, wedding planners.

Now I'm fully aware that some of you out there are familiar with/are related to/are wedding planners and though I'm sure you're really nice at home, being the maid of honor is like being a butler when it comes down to it. After we finally chose one, it was "Lizzy can get this," and "Lizzy'll do that," and "You wouldn't be willing to quit your job so that we can spend seventeen hours watching a guy arrange flowers for center pieces, would you Lizzy?"

I'm going to elope.

Needless to say, I did _not _quit my job, because as much as I love my dear sweet sister and her dear sweet husband to be, I do have a life that does not involve chiffon and place settings and veil lengths.

And that life is known as Captain Skippy's Happy Fun House Restaurant and Playroom (Where Playing Becomes Fun!). Yes, this may be the saddest thing you've ever heard, but please don't yell for Pa to get the shotgun just yet. My life does get better.

I promise.

So, amidst all the wedding/baby hustle and bustle, I was able to ground myself in the painfully familiar:

The Fa-la-la Birthday Song.

"Fa-la-la-la-la It's your Birthday,

doo-de-doo-de-doo

Tum-diddy-um-tum-tum, Happy Birthday,

And lots of gifts for you.

We strum and play and sing, nonny-nonny,

And share this happy tune,

Fa-la-la-la It's your Birthday

Happy tweedledee-dum to you !"

There. Now you have a copy of your very own to sing to your boyfriends/girlfriends/little siblings/mothers and fathers/worst enemies. Enjoy.

In fact, it was this very song to which a previously (and for damn good reason) forgotten (read: blocked-out) acquaintance (a word which here means "someone whom we have met before but never really liked") whom I'd never hoped to see again suddenly reappeared.

I used "whom" twice in one sentence.

God, I'm good.

Or disgustingly anal. Take your pick.

So anyway, to be absolutely anti-climactic and refuse any sort of cliff-hangery nonsense,

the basic gist of what I was going to say is that while I was singing the "Fa-la-la Birthday Song" on a cold, lonely afternoon, Catherine de Bourgh suddenly appeared in the doorway.

At first, I thought I was hallucinating, that she was a kind of mirage you'd have if you hadn't had enough water in the desert, and you were dying, and you thought you saw water or a pond or something, but it was a figment of your imagination.

Only I can't think of anyone who'd dream of Catherine in the desert if they were dying.

Then again, I've met Stephen Baker, so I'm totally lying.

There's always an exception to any rule.

She walked in, leaning on a cane for dramatic effect (old and wizened, fine, but there was nothing wrong with her legs). My first thought (after my other totally irrational first thought) was to panic and run for the fire alarm and save all the poor, rich, defenseless, annoying children from being turned into stone. Then the small part of my brain that governs logic clicked on, and I thought "hey, I'm wearing a big cow head with googly eyes and twenty yards of felt. You could release the hounds and still not find me."

Slow I may be, but I get the job done.

Unfortunately, either she had that laser vision that I covet like nothing else on this earth, or Manny the manager (ironic, and yet scarily stereotypical) had ratted me out for the feeling of a smooth, crisp twenty in the palm of his hand.

Or she'd threatened to kill his first born child (read: all his D&D handbooks) and key his car (read: burn all his Magic cards).

She stalked right up to me where I was pretending to strum a guitar-ukulele-hybrid and looked me right in the eyes (not the googly felt ones, which are situated somewhere near my forehead), and said, "Get in the car _now._"

The party had come to a standstill, with twenty-five seven-year-olds, plus Cloppy the Horse and Swimmy the Fish and Waggy the Dog and Duchess the Cat and Captain Skippy himself stood watching Daisy the Cow being abducted by an old woman in a seven thousand dollar tweed suit and hair coiffed out to infinity.

To explain why I didn't tell her to let me change first, I'll have to quote from the Employee Contract Manual.

**_Removal of Captain Skippy's _**trademark symbol_ **uniform: **_

_Removal of costumes or uniforms is prohibited during shifts at Captain Skippy's Happy Fun House Restaurant and Playroom, and any removal or readjustment of uniforms will result in immediate termination of employment contract. For a list of acceptable times and places in which to change or remove uniform, please turn to page 74. Also note that while uniforms are in place employees are required to remain in character and above all silent. _

This is the kind of world we live in, where even Cloppy the Horse's neighing gets outsourced to recordings played over loudspeakers.

So, if I wanted to keep my job, I knew that I needed to do two things. First, shut up, and second., not take the stupid google-eyed head off.

In order to stay alive and/or preserve my sanity, I needed to run as fast as my scrawny cow legs would let me.

So I followed her to her limo all Daisyed-up, with my eyes wiggling and my ears bouncing and my stupid cowbell ringing with every step. She didn't give me time to attempt a runner, because the passenger door opened and a guy built like Andre the Giant meets Mount Everest stepped out and cracked his knuckles threateningly.

And you thought that only happened in Indiana Jones.

I bet his name's Ivan, too. Or Phineas the Baby-Eating Bone Masher.

So I climbed into the car, trying to have some dignity and not hit my head on the door.

As Ivan-Phineas helped Catherine into the car (it figures that I was the one who had to slide over, doesn't it?), my mind raced, trying to fathom why the hell she had gone through the trouble of leaving behind her posse, driving to Boston, found where I worked, actually gone into a kids' Restaurant and Playroom with working class mothers and blue collar employees to take me away in her limo complete with its own walking, order-obeying mountain range.

Because it looked to me like she was making a bit of an effort if she just wanted to tell me she hated me and never wanted to see me again. If that was what she wanted, then she could have stayed at Rosings and never have had to worry about me again.

So my brilliant deductive mind concluded that she wasn't here to tell me she hated me.

Or, that wasn't the _only_ thing she wanted to tell me. But I had no idea what the other stuff was.

"I think you know why I am here, Elizabeth."

Well, that fit in perfectly with what we were talking about.

"Nope."

"Don't be smug, I have no patience for it."

"Why don't we go somewhere else we can talk. I don't know about you, but I was taught that arguing in a car is uncivilized."

Okay, so that was totally untrue, but it made her swell up with anger in an extremely satisfying way. "I find it preposterously laughable that I am being given lessons in etiquette by a rude, unattractive working class girl in a cow costume who wouldn't know good breeding if she walked into it."

"Laughable, yes. Picturesque, definitely. But it does have a certain ring of truth, doesn't it? If you want to talk to me about anything, _Cathy_, then you'll take us somewhere where we can be frustrated without the threat of fisticuffs."

I could hear her teeth grinding from where I was sitting, and if she hadn't spent the last seventeen years of her life complaining about arthritis in her hands, I think she would have liked nothing better that to strangle me and dump my body in the Charles river, counting on twenty years of cheap fabric to weigh me down.

Me, I was just happy I got an excuse to use the word "fisticuffs" in an argument, something I've wanted my entire life.

The driver, who looked like a Peep compared to Jorgen Van Strangle next to him, pointed the car downtown, got lost twice, and eventually, after twenty-five minutes of frosty silence, stopped outside the Common on Boylston Street, and as soon as the car came to something resembling a stop, I jumped out of the car, taking my cow head with me.

But Catherine's voice stopped me dead.

"Elizabeth Bennet! Stop this instant!"

An Ella Enchanted for a New Age, that's me.

"What do you want, Catherine?" I asked, turning around to find her about three inches from me. For an old broad, she moved pretty fast, but unless I was recruiting for a rec basketball team, this was not a good thing.

"I recently received an alarming report," she said quietly, supposedly trying to throw me with how calm she suddenly was, "from a dear, and very trustworthy friend of mine. I immediately started planning a trip to this disgusting city to confirm once and for all that it is impossible, and that it will never be possible."

"Whoop-de-doo. What's that got to do with me?"

"I heard that your sister is going to marry Charlie Bingleton very soon. It seems one of you, at least, achieved what you're doubtlessly aspiring to at this moment. But then I heard that you were also very close to a similar engagement."

"What, I'm suddenly going to marry Emma? She's not really my type."

"Shut up, you moronic child! I'm not talking about Emma, and if continue to interrupt me, then I will do everything in my power to make sure that _you _never speak to anyone again!"

"What are you going to do? Buy me a nice pair of cement shoes? Is Ivan over there a member of the Russian mob under your control? You may be rich, _Miss_ de Bourgh, but you have no power to intimidate me."

"_What I am saying, Elizabeth Bennet, is that there are people in this world who believe that you are engaged to William Darcy!_"

"…I see."

"Is it true?"

"You just told me it was impossible, so why are you worried?"

"Will Darcy is engaged to my daughter, that's why I'm worried! If even a hint of this gets out, reputations could be ruined!"

"Meaning your reputation as the greatest manipulator of our time? If Will is engaged to dear little what's-her-face, then you could have no worries about me."

"When I said engaged, I meant that it was planned from their births by his mother and myself. It is not official."

"Then I guess I should congratulate you two for keeping arranged marriage in the Western world. Unfortunately for you, Will Darcy is twenty five and able to choose for himself. But this has nothing to do with me."

"Do you have any idea what a marriage to you would do to him? His credibility, his life's work? Do you have any notion about how embarrassing to his relatives and friends to see _you_ as his wife? It would be a disgrace! Your name would never be mentioned by any of us"

"First of all, anyone who is worth being a friend wouldn't care how wealthy I am if I'm what Will wanted. Secondly, I think you're counting yourself as one of his relations a little too early, because as far as I'm concerned, the only one he has worth mentioning is his sister, and last time I checked she had no problem with me."

"Stupid, useless girl! It would be the biggest mistake of your life if you thought _you_ could possibly give him everything he wants! Stick to where you're better acquainted; I hear that Manny is just out of a relationship, _he_ may be looking for someone just like you."

"Since when does money marry money by law? Where is it written that the only person you can marry is as wealthy as yourself? How can there be any kind of change for the better if we abide by a feudal caste system, this 'us' you spoke of? _If_ I married Will, I would consider it a good match. He is a kind, warm, loyal man, and I am a fully functional, _thinking_ human being, and if he has no problem with me, then the rest is none of your business!"

"But what are your talents? Who do you know? Who are your parents? Don't think me ignorant enough to be unaware of the nothing you really are!"

"Again, lady, if he doesn't care, then what does it matter to you?"

"Tell me, you ridiculous idiot! _Are you engaged to him?_"

"No." She smiled, revealing teeth. I'm not sure why that should creep me out any more than it made me angry that she'd won.

"And will you promise me that you never will accept an engagement with him?"

"Of course I won't. And I'd appreciate it if we ended this now." I turned around and headed back for the car, and I heard her feet stomping the ground behind me.

"Not so fast, there! I have another complaint! Your roommate Lydia's illegitimate child! Is _that _the kind of person you'd want William to associate with? And your sister's engagement is nothing but a gold-digger's dream come true! You are all conniving, insolent, disgusting girls and I am ashamed of you! To think that _you _define womanhood more than my own daughter does! You are determined to ruin him, aren't you?"

"That's enough, you ludicrous old hag. There isn't one way you haven't insulted me in a way totally beneath the class you pretend to possess. Being wealthy or powerful is no excuse to treat people like they don't matter. _I _am ashamed of _you_, and I always will be, because not only do you not know what womanhood is, but you can't even remember your own daughter's name. _I _have an excuse, I don't know her. _You _don't."

"Why you—"

"And furthermore, I am not determined to do anything beyond ensure my happiness without being intimidated or bullied by you or anyone else who has _nothing to do with me_, and never will." And I opened the door and she climbed in. I was damned if I was going to sit in a car with her for the twenty minutes it took for Peep to find his way around, and I had the feeling that that was mutual.

" I never want to see you again, Bennet. I won't tell you to take care or have a good year or even goodbye. You deserve nothing of the kind."

I slammed the car door, and watched as it drove away, Ivan cracking his knuckles in the rearview mirror into the distance.

Turning around, I adjusted the cow head under my arm and set off for home.

A/N: So here's the next chapter, and I have something to tell you guys. First, Thanks for reviewing, all you new names and such, and if you haven't done it yet, there's still time, it'll be fun, I promise. Also, I'm going to New Hampshire for two weeks, and I won't have computer access for all that time, so the next time you'll hear from me is in September after school starts. I'm really really sorry, but it will be good, I promise, because I'll be revising the end in New Hampshire, so it'll be really good.

I've actually thought about doing another Jane Austen fic (Emma), and I would like to do it eventually, but I want to take a break from it and make up my own think for once. I have a Civil War fic in the making right now, but the amount of research is ridiculous. Any other ideas? I need something to take my mind away from college apps.


	39. His Girl Friday Part Deux

A/N: So this is the last chapter. After this, there is no more. I'm really sad, because beyond editing, I won't be working on this story, and Lizzy, who has been a part of my life since I was thirteen, and an actual written character since I was fourteen, is not going to be with me anymore. It's almost depressing.

But in a way it's good, because writing her is exhausting, and I constantly have to find a new way of looking at things. Which means the story challenges me, which is good, but it's also time to move on to a different character in a new genre. Look for me sometime soon on Fictionpress under the penname HurlyBurlyTintamar (a really good suggestion from the new penname contest that I ignored for some reason). It'll be a Civil War fic, like I said, only with a twist. Anyone who lives in Georgia, could you tell me a little about the landscape and the weather and stuff? Being from up here, I have no idea what it's like and I need a place to put an old ancestral plantation, but I don't know where those are in relation to cities and such. Anyone who has any special knowledge in the Civil War or just wants to know a little more about my story can feel free to e-mail me at any time, and I'll try to get back to you as fast as I can.

Also, for all of you who don't read my friend Tessandra's work, she has a new story called A Stag in the Headlights, which is a Lilly/James fic and it's really funny. She's amazing at spats, for which I envy her like no tomorrow.

Okay, so I can't put this off any longer, so here we go. Darcy fans, rejoice, for he is back. In a big way.

I'm on my way, I don't know where I'm going, in

Chapter 38: His Girl Friday Part II (Deux)

Again I slammed the door to the washing machine, giving the load yet another jaunt through the stain cycle.

Morning sickness sucks for both the pregnant woman and those around her. I highly suggest skipping that part of pregnancy, should the option come your way. I know I will.

I cracked open a Sunny-D and rested my head against the third of five Out of Order dryers, marveling on how empty Lite Kleen Scrubby Bubbles was on Tuesday nights (morning sickness is also most definitely not restricted to the mornings). It was like I was the only person in Boston doing laundry, and from the crowd that usually washed their clothes in this particular Lite Kleen Scrubby Bubbles, that was a definite good thing. The lights that hung precariously from the ceiling made everything that indie-movie kind of yellow, including my spiffy new shoelaces (white with big purple polka dots).

One time I made this documentary about what I did on Saturdays for high school Doc Video 1, and about ten minutes was just watching the washing machine go around. Mostly because I never slept in high school, and the Laundromat floor was reasonably comfortable, but also because washing machines are mesmerizing.

I was being cheaply entertained in this fashion when the door _ding_ed, meaning some poor shmuck had stepped onto the premises, but s/he was blocked by the bank of washers in front on me, and being as ridiculously short as I am, I didn't bother craning my neck, relying on fate to bring whoever it was either toward me or away.

I'm not lazy, I promise.

That's a lie.

Come to think of it, has someone ever done this to you: This sentence is a lie.

See, if it was true that that sentence was a lie, then it would be telling the truth, and if it was wrong, and the sentence was a lie, then it would also be a lie, because both indicate the opposite.

In seventh grade, Rowan and I got really into mind-benders like that, and lacking other things to do/ friends to do them with, we sat around in my basement, tossing them back and forth to each other while Rowan played video games and I flipped through his D&D books (yes, he and Manny know each other via Role Playing Website. My cup runneth over) and looked at the pictures. That was one of them that always really confused him, sometimes making him roll around on the floor, clutching his head and screaming "Stop eating my brain! Stop eating my brain!"

Cool kids.

The only thing that keeps me from regretting every second of my adolescent life is the fact that it was funny along with being painfully awkward and dorky.

So anyway, the door opened and I didn't look up because 1.) I was distracted by a bright yellow shirt in the spin cycle and 2.) I was comfortable in my bubble and didn't want to disturb it with curiosity.

But when Will Darcy said, "Same girl, same position, different bottle. Are you okay?" my head snapped up and I met his eyes, took in his beautiful, smiling face, his semi-casual lean against the farthest washer. I took in the tension in his shoulders, the worry in his eyes, the laundry basket he had put on top of the machine, and I smiled broadly for the first time in two weeks.

He grinned back, something I had seen only three times before, making my heart thump like those stupid teen romance books or like those equally stupid trashy romance novels, which in some ways are scarily similar.

I patted the floor next to me, and he sat down next to me. I handed him an unopened bottle from my basket, and said, "Well, since I gave up the sauce, I decided I might as well sink deeply into my next great love."

He choked on his first sip, and I slapped him on the back as he turned pink and coughed.

Ahh, dignity.

"Your next love? Which is?" he managed, tearing up.

I held up my bottle of Sunny-D and said "Unleashin' the power of the sun, man."

"Ah," he took a sip, sans choking, "not bad, but I suspect you'd need to be raised on it to really love it like you do."

"Mother's milk, my dear friend, mother's milk. But I wouldn't go that far. The Baskin Robbins kid ate it every day, and now he hates it."

"Well then, just give it a couple of years."

"Blasphemy! Heresy! Speak no more of this, Cromwell, I charge thee."

He was laughing now, "All right, I promise."

There was a small pause, in which we both stared at the rinse cycle, and he said, "This is entertaining."

"I hear it's the suburban equivalent of a horse race."

"What's it to city girls?"

"Cheap fun minus the scandal."

"Indeed."

I turned toward him, meeting his eyes again. I put down my D, and said, "Listen, Will, I can't keep this up without thanking you for what you did for Lydia. It means so much to everyone, and you have no idea how much you helped us. Please," I added, because he was looking uncomfortable and started to turn away, "let me say this. Maybe no one else will ever understand what that must have been like for you, or what kind of humiliation you must have suffered, even after beating the living pulp out of Wickham, which must have been fun, by the way," here he smiled a little, and started to turn away again. I grabbed him arm and turned him back, "but I do know. And the fact that you still did it, I can't thank you enough for helping Lydia."

"I didn't do it for her," he was staring down at my hand on his bicep, "I did it for you, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat, humiliation or no."

We were both staring down now, the friendly ease totally gone. I felt sick and dizzy and strangely energized, like I was touching this dynamo, about to dive into an abyss only to have gusts of cool wind push me into the sky. I was close to something, and someone, and from there on the Laundromat floor, this time nothing was going to ruin it for me.

"You're not someone who leads people on. Please," and his voice shook a little before he got it under control, "tell me, if you feel the same way about me as you did at Rosings, let me know. If you can't love me, then tell me now. Because I still love you." He met my eyes, and I didn't look away.

"I don't feel the same way as I did at Rosings. I'll never feel the same way ever again." I laid my hand against his cheek. "Because I love you."

I know the whole hand-against-cheek thing is a little cliché, at least a little _Last of the Mohicans_, but that's my favorite movie, so you can excuse me.

He smiled against my palm, and took my hand in his, clasping it tightly. I smiled back and said, "I thought I'd chased you away with my whole drunken rage thing. I thought I'd finally gotten rid of you at the ironic point that I wanted to hold onto you. I always did have bad timing."

He laughed, which made me laugh.

Yes, yes, it was all very giddy. Yes, we were both like little school girls. Laugh while you can.

That's enough.

"I took it as an indication that I needed to try a bit harder. When you came to Pemberley, it was as if I had experienced an unexpected windfall, like I'd been given one last chance by luck. When you left, I decided I had to do some work as well."

"So you found Wickham…"

"And alerted him to two possible outcomes of his future."

"After putting him through a tenderization process."

"Oh, naturally."

"But whatever it cost me, it was worth it if it gave me a chance to redeem myself in your eyes—"

"You never needed to redeem yourself. Not that I'm not grateful, because—"

"Don't thank me again, please, there's only so much gratitude a man can handle. Besides, if I didn't need to redeem myself to you, then I needed to do it for myself. Because no matter what you or Georgie or Charlie think, I _am _a world-class wanker."

"There's something you don't hear everyday."

"Maybe not on this continent. I'm not a very good person, Lizzy. My father gave me good lessons, but trusted me to put them into immediate practice. I abused that trust, and became proud and arrogant and elitist and presumptuous. And I might have stayed like that for the rest of my sad, lonely life if it wasn't for you."

"So those none-too-eloquent dressing-downs were for the good of Darcy-kind, right?"

"How could you doubt it? They brought me closer to you, even if they drove you away. You showed me how ridiculous and selfish I had become, how stupid all of my class assumptions were. I can never repay you for that."

"I can think of a few ways," I said, winking lewdly at him. He chuckled, playing with the fingers of my hand, running his thumb over mine.

"But what really gave me hope was when Catherine told me all about your argument on the Common. She meant it to show how low-class and stubborn you were, butI took it to mean that I still had a chance with you."

"I can't think of anything that would suggest otherwise. From here on out, you always have a chance with me."

"I'll keep that in mind. Only a little while ago, you would have told me to get the hell out of your life forever."

"Don't remind me, for the love of God. I don't want to remember what I said then."

"What did you say to me that I didn't deserve, Lizzy? You called me arrogant, which I was, you said I treated you like I wanted to purge you from my body, which I did. Even if I apologize every hour for the rest of my life, I can't tell you how sorry I am about the way I treated you. But the thing I'll always remember is the way you said that you were glad I wasn't polite, because it would have made you feel slightly guilty about refusing me. That there was nothing I could have said that would have tempted you to accept me."

"Stop it! Stop, Will," I pleaded, going bright red, ready to sink into the floor and die. Even if he was just testing my reaction , enjoying how my new feelings were so different from my old ones, it was embarrassing and painful.

"Sorry, love. It's just—"

"Just what?" I calmed and looked at him again. He had gone back to Hesitant and Cautious Will, and if he got any more embarrassed, I'd have to start and long and complicated game of charades to get to the bottom of this.

Detective Inspector Lizzy Bennet, at your service.

"I want to kiss you," he sounded sheepish and a little upset.

"What's wrong with that?" I'd been wrestling with that feeling for the past ten minutes.

Although I hadn't wanted to kiss myself, that would be weird and gross.

Almost as bad as those twins from Eurotrip, but not as bad.

If you're twins with someone of the opposite gender, never drink absinth in Amsterdam.

"Well, I'm not sure if I should."

"Why not? I'm not going to slap you."

"Well, that's good, I suppose, but that's not the problem. I've dreamed of kissing you since I first met you, but that was when I thought you'd never love me, and suddenly you do love me, and I'm not sure how to go from dream to reality, to not disappoint you, or not ruin what we have now."

"Easy, like this," I said, and leaned forward, catching his lips with mine.

It was like my first kiss all over again.

Well, actually it was _much_ better than my first kiss, because my first had been with Andy Hellovitz in the eighth grade, and had been weird and slightly painful, because Andy hadn't fully grasped the ability to not bite things he put his lips on. Later on, I'd learned that he'd been paid to do it by one of his friends, who was grossed out that Andy had even come close to me.

So yeah, this was _much _better than my first kiss.

When we broke apart, he kissed my cheekbone, then my nose, then my other cheek, and then my forehead, like he was afraid I'd break apart. "I love you, you know."

"Well, you actually did tell me that before, but I'm not complaining. Tell me every day."

"Same to you, sweetheart."

"I love you, Will."

"That's my girl."

As he kissed me, I smiled, imagining trying to explain this to everyone else. I'd probably be thrown accusing looks, like I was gold digging or pulling a Charlotte. I'd be told I didn't love him, that he didn't deserve me, that it was a mistake.

But, I reasoned, pulling him closer to me, none of that mattered, as long as I had this man right here in my arms, as long as he loved me and I loved him, then nothing else mattered.

Most especially not what other people thought.

So that's my story. I could continue and tell you what happened next, or what Jen's wedding was like, and what my bridesmaid's toast was like, especially because I was the only one in the room toasting with orange juice. I could tell you what happened twenty years later.

But I won't. Because as far as I'm concerned, a person's life is broken up into different stories. There would be one about my childhood, or my birth, or my piano career, or my friendship with Rowan, or my job at Captain Skippy's. This story was about Will, about how I met him, hated him, met him again and hated, and then saw his house and met him again and fell in love with him. And this is the end of this particular story, and I won't weigh it down with anything extra or unnecessary, no epilogue or "continuing story," because they won't have the same feeling, or importance.

But be assured that I loved him, and I love him still, and I always will love him.

And really, that's enough, worth more than any innumerable number of chapters or add-ons or non-sequential, large bills in discreet black attaché cases.

Besides, you're smart kids, you can guess/imagine/invent what comes next.

Cheers, all of you. I said I didn't have a moral, but I guess I lied on that score, too. Just try not to hurl just yet, wait until the final write-off.

You okay?

Good.

And I lived happily ever after, even though I still had issues with my mom and dad, and even though I didn't know what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Even though I had no clue about what was going to happen, I had this part figured out.

And that was enough.


	40. Author's Notey Goodness in Two Flavors

Okay, this is not a chapter, either. Sorry if you got all excited. I just have a couple of notes that I wanted to tell you. First of all, anyone trying to reach me at my old e-mail address, will be thwarted by internet mail demons. I'm now at if you want to mail me.

Secondly, in terms of editing, I WILL edit my story eventually, and change things, fix all the billion and a half typos that I made over the years, and all that fun stuff. But I'm trying not to fail the last quarter of my senior year, so it won't happen until the summer, I would think. I might add in a couple scenes I realized are missing from the story, but I have no idea.

Thirdly (so the whole "couple" thing was more of a guideline than anything else), I'm currently writing another story, and it would be awesome to have some more familiar names on my Review board. It's called The Princes of Shadows, and it's a Robin Hood fic. I understand if that's not your thing, but I like it (note: NOT an impartial opinion), so give it a read, if you would.

Lastly (unless something else comes to me last minute), I GOT INTO COLLEGE! Yay! So I'll be writing this from Beloit College in Wisconsin come August.

Did anyone else get the P&P DVD? I know I did! Oh, and did anyone see She's the Man? I did…twice…yeah, so Tess and I are complete dorks.

Cheers, and I hope to see you on the Robin Hood flip side.

Dinah


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